


Holding Pattern

by PeonyBlack



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate History, Angst, Character Death, Dystopia, Gen, Global War, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Indentured Servitude, Military government, Original Character(s), Power Imbalance, Prisoner of War, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Spy - Freeform, War, mass surveillance, satellite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-17
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-02-03 17:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 51,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12753267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeonyBlack/pseuds/PeonyBlack
Summary: "There is a self-destructive streak to you, surely you realise.""Or it's just plain old idiot brain. I'm not that complicated. You can stop profiling me now."Gunn had stood by the orders. No matter how dangerous. No matter if, along the way, the mission had turned suicidal. No matter if it had put him at odds with very powerful people, and ultimately landed him in prison.Gunn was a good little soldier once, but no longer.He had nothing left to fight for. It was just that he couldn't stop.And even if he could, the woman wouldn't let him.Military dystopia with themes of restricted freedom and violence. Unbetaed. All rights reserved.





	1. 1

**Chapter 1**

GUNN knew he was done for the moment the car rolled into the camp. 

For a while now, he'd been standing in the hollowing wind, losing body heat and debating the fate of his last cigarette. For prisoners like him with nothing better to do it was leisure time.

In the aftermath of the storm the Atlantic evening had a sick, greenish hue. Troubled skies blended with troubled waters at the line of horizon. Town lights ghosted through the mists in the distance. Gunn rubbed his temples, and narrowed his eyes in frustration.

Currently the town limit was the edge of his universe, his personal, army-tailored 'here be dragons'. Highwater, a secluded beach somewhere, in the fief of the Northern Taskforce, possibly the Sleeve. He'd been flown in. Gunn remembered the army helo with the Northern Taskforce logo printed on everything from doors to tattered safety belts, but not much else had cut through his drug-induced haze. 

The concrete courtyard was busy in the evening. All around him, the other prisoners, soldiers of the Western Coalition for Security, sentenced for minor offences, cracked bad jokes and shot the breeze. As always, Gunn kept his distance. But he listened in, stone-faced, on the chin wag of the others, filtering relevant bits of information from the endless stories about girls, buzz, and fighting. 

"It's like they wanted to fuck this up." The men had their backs to him, but he recognised the voice: Jamie Reid, private, and the top-dog in Higwater's inmate hierarchy. Back when he was still a corporal, he'd questioned a Chinese PoW for 36 hours straight, in breach of the Brussels Convention. The post-mortem had found splenic rupture, among other, non-lethal injuries. Reid had been sentenced to two years in a medium security facility, and reduced to the ranks.

"So, Viviani doesn't see any fuckin' action in twenty years. But he's getting all buddy-buddy with General Roland, so Roland puts the chair butt in charge and makes him a hero. Some bright guy in CI obviously thought this goddamn war a joke. Guess the joke is on us now, dying in that shithole for three years."

"Hey, still more them than us," someone said. The men laughed. Reid cursed roughly under his breath.

"At least General Motherfucker Viviani has company in hell. In my book, the bullet he got was exactly what he deserved. But Cooler Brighton, man, he was the real thing. Hands-on, no bullshit kind of guy. He got in, after Viviani, and cleaned two-year's worth of mess, in like, six months."

Rumours travelled, even in the glasshouse: General Kevin Brighton, code-named 'the Cooler' for his machine-like efficiency, had gone and gotten himself KIA during the peacekeeping mission in Cerna. In this country, once so insignificant that Western analysts hardly bothered updating their fact sheets, the Taskforce had lost two theatre commanders in less than two years: first General Viviani, and now Brighton, both in Pojina, the capital they supposedly controlled. Soldiers died in wars; generals, not so much. It made everyone uneasy, even these inmates.

Gunn held the cigarette between his fingers, in a smoking-like gesture. He craved that first mouthful. He'd had the dream again, about fighter planes over Pojina, breaking the summer light into baneful silver coins, and the migraine spotted his vision crimson. But tobacco, like everything illicit, was rare and expensive, and he couldn't bring himself to waste it. 

"That's all kinds of FUBAR, man," another inmate said. "What the hell is really going on over there?" 

"Ask him," Jamie Reid said. He turned his head suddenly, to look straight at Gunn over his shoulder. "Betcha this son of a bitch knows more than he lets on." He twisted his lips in an ugly sneer, and stared him down. "Don't you?"

Gunn got his hackles up. "Didn't you get the memo, Reid? Your interrogation room days are over."

Reid barked a short, ugly laughter. "I'm not the one stuck in this dump for ten fucking years. Maybe we'll meet again, you and I."

"Call me," Gunn said, turning his back to him. "I'll save you a date." But really, he wasn't as confident as he sounded. 

The gale carried the roar to his ear, the growling and barking of metal parts. Gunn jerked his head to one side, towards the noise. He spotted the car, rolling between the dunes: an older, heavier model, the kind that had seen enough action for the army to do away with. Patches of rust surfaced here and there through the cracking layer of camouflage paint. But appearances were deceiving: The vehicle remained lethal. 

The other men noticed it, too. Buttoning his uniform, Captain Marcus, the camp's CO, rushed out of the office. He barked some instructions at his guards. The wind ruffled his mop of red hair, and he flattened it back, looking anxious.

The voices in the yard dropped. Highwater was a medium security detention facility, intended for the lower ranks. In places like this, inspections only occurred when someone kicked the bucket, and the causes were too obvious to pass for natural. Even then, things were kept cursory. This occasion warranted the welcoming committee. 

The car halted briefly at checkpoint, and then breached through the gates, stopping in front of the office building. The treads in the tires picked up the gravel, flicking rocks up and around, like shrapnel. 

Gunn's heart raced with a sudden discharge of adrenaline. He had only one plausible explanation. With Brighton gone, someone else was after his spoils. Brighton and Gunn, they shared a history.

A tall, strong man stepped out first. Short hair, dark skin, in ugly, utilitarian clothes, he shook hands with Marcus, exchanged a few words, and then held the door open for the woman. 

In a prisoner camp in the middle of a fucking nowhere, she was quite the site. But then again, she had little chances of going unobserved in a city riot. She was wrapped from head to toe in grey, splendidly simulated bio-lab furs that screamed exclusive, and didn't help any against the wind. The woman's narrow shoulders shook visibly, and she clasped her hands together to warm them up. Whoever dressed like this for a ride to this hellhole? The impracticability had to be deliberate. A status symbol. Maybe a symbol of rank. 

Negative. She wasn't army material. Willowy, on the side of frail. He couldn't see her face, but she said something to Marcus, and he laughed, and when she cocked her head, the look of her was that of something spoiled, and pretty. She took her time getting friendly with the captain, but something about the exchange seemed off. Marcus, apparently, thought he stood a chance. He offered her his bent arm. She took it, with the air of a princess granting a favour, and he led her into the office. 

The man lingered by the car. One of the guards spoke to him, and he laughed, shaking his head. With a small shrug, he produced a brand-new cigarette pack from his pocket, and passed it on to the corporal. The soldiers jumped at the chance, shielding the lighters from the wind with their coats. The man leaned against the car, and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes moved steadily around the camp, taking everything in frame by frame, before they settled firmly on the office door.

This wasn't his maiden voyage; not by a long shot. 

Gunn reached for the cigarette, and lit it with shaking fingers. Smoke descended, foul, into his lungs. But the nastiness calmed him, filtering out his thoughts. 

Brighton had never bothered to interrogate him, but someone else might. They'd put a woman at it. One that played at femme fatale, wearing furs and wrapping camp commanders around her little finger. Because he was going to fall for it.

He was that stupid. 

But then again, he wasn't all that bright, either. 

Still. He didn't have to tell them nothing. 

Forgotten, the cigarette burnt his fingers. He crushed it under the sole of his boot, taking his time to give it a proper funeral.

Bullshit. He might just have to. Most people did. 

Was he ready to die here? Gunn once imagined not having anything left to live for meant the affirmative. Funny, but apparently not. 

The others were making their way back into the barracks. Their wolf whistling, and jeering laughter got under his skin. He stayed where he was, in the emptying yard. The wind whipped up the sand, blurring the outline of the dunes. Around his wrist, the bracelet blinked, red and yellow, and red again, an ugly thing on top of his uglier scars.

A camp guard grabbed his shoulder, and pushed him forward.

"Hey, make it today, Cerna!"

He made it today. Cerna prisoners have no rights, Brighton had told him, on the day of his arrest. In Highwater, he'd received the same treatment as the other prisoners. But Marcus was lackadaisical. The man in the car, on the other hand, struck him as the committed type.

Unsurprisingly, at suppertime, he was ordered to stay behind in the barracks. He doubted he'd make it to roll call, but they were dragging it on.

The wait, Gunn hated the most.

Back in Pojina, waiting had been a dress rehearsal for mourning. Everyone knew what was coming, the entire city, breath caught and nerves strained. Winds from the sea swept the blood-stained streets, and pushed against locked doors and stone-blind windows. Many had fled the city in the early days of the war. Others had not. In the beginning, night time came with outbreaks of chaos, which the army did nothing to contain. It was every man for his own: amo had to be saved. Eventually, civil unrest receded also, under the pressure of anticipation. When the shelling finally started, it was almost a relief.

Gunn hadn't been relieved that time when Brighton had kept him waiting, though.

His right arm, with the bracelet and the scars, tingled. His clothes chaffed his skin. Moving slowly, like he couldn't quite feel through his body, he walked to window. Through the veneer of smears and smudged finger-marks, he stared at the oxidised hallo of the moon. Other satellites were up there, too; one, in particular.

_Hello, Fire Sky. Do you copy, you goddamn son of a bitch?_

A shadow moved over the glass, darkening the spectral fingers there. His skin prickled with the sensation of being watched. Gunn turned around. Dark eyes scanned him, with clinical curiosity. 

The man leaned against the door, filling the entire frame. Gunn stared him back. In his late 30s, he was big, olive-skinned, an American, maybe? He wore black head to toe instead of a uniform, but the gun tucked under his belt was an army-issued 9 mil. And if Gunn would suddenly yell 'ten-hut', in his once excellent DLIPS tone, he would first kick his heels together, and then stop to wonder. 

The staring contest was getting on his nerves. What did the bastard see when he watched him like this? 

"You speak English, right?" He finally said.

He wasn't American; his English had a hint of foreign. Maybe French; or Belgian; or even German, or Middle Eastern. With the diverse nationalities making up the Western Coalition for Security, it was hard to tell.

"Yeah." 

"Good. You're being relocated. Means you're coming with me, effective immediately. If there's things you want to bring along, within reason, now is the time to pack. Lay everything down on the bunk first. I'll have to inspect them."

He had to admit, not a bad tactic: reviewing a selection of your target's personal items could provide interesting intel. Or not, in this particular case. First, because the original assumption was wrong: he had no personal belongings, only army-issued prisoner gear. And second, Gunn didn't expect to need things where he was going. But where was he going, again?

Don't ask questions, he thought. He wants you to. Say nothing. You're being set up.

He kept watching the man, unmoving, unblinking. The other held his eyes, unruffled.

"Do you also understand English, Cerna?"

"I do, officer."

The man shook his head. "I'm a civil contractor. If you heard me, what are you still doing standing there?" 

_Sure you are._ "Waiting to be impressed," Gunn said. "You have a gun. But I've seen guns before."

All that gained him was a long, even darker gaze from the man. "You play along, give me no pain, and we'll get through this just fine. Or we can go about it the hard way."

Ah, threats; not even the imaginative kind. Officer Blackwater was cast as the bad cop here, and was playing by the usual script. The waiting was over. He was definitely not impressed.

"If it's easy, it ain't worth it, is what I hear."

Blackwater smiled, showing sharp, white teeth. It wasn't a good look on him. Gunn had a hard time imagining what would. "You don't think I'll shoot you."

"No, I don't." They'd taken the trouble of travelling here for him. He couldn't be sure, however. Maybe the orders were to kill if it came to that. Did he really feel like having his brains washed off that wall?

"Pretty, and clever!" He nodded his head at Gunn's arm. "I have the codes to that thing 'round your wrist, so I'll harm you instead." His grin widened, sincere as plastic. "Impressed now, sweetheart?" 

Flawless logic. Gunn stared down at the scars on his arm, the taut skin over the bones of the joint, at the shining mechanism by his wrist. He still had trouble moving his right arm, after his first and last attempt at fighting off a camp guard. The muscle memory of that encounter was strong, and the scars, a powerful reminder.

A couple of seconds and he won't be able to move. Close to a minute and he'll drop. Gunn had enough of being dragged unconscious from one Taskforce black site to the next. But awareness wasn't necessarily an advantage, when men like Blackwater relocated you to undisclosed facilities. He suddenly caught a whiff in the air, sharp, reminiscent of chlorine. It shot to his brain, like apache.

"I take my threats in the morning, sweetheart. Preferably, with coffee. It's late, and I'm all fed up. You want to push your little button? Have a field day." 

Something shifted in the line of Blackwater's shoulders. His hand reached deep inside his pocket, but his voice was carefully controlled.

"Get your things."

"Fuck my things, civil contractor," Gunn said, keeping his eyes on him. The bracelet controls; left back pocket of those ugly jeans.

Blackwater's gaze travelled around the barrack, like he was preparing to search it. Then, he scrubbed a hand over his face.

"We're moving out. Office building, first."

He dragged himself from the door, making just enough room for Gunn to move by. Gunn did, grudgingly. Blackwater fell into a cadence behind him. He could feel his eyes between his shoulder blades, like daggers driven into his back. Close to what Gunn had in mind, if given half a chance.


	2. Chapter 2

STELLA hated the place.

In the distance, the ocean howled like a wounded beast. The storm had hit bad: high sea, wild winds, and rain that cleansed the shores, leaving havoc in the wake. On the way over, in the car, the army station talked of collapsed fences and broken barns, of blown-away roofs and casualties.

Next to the town, on a rocky promontory by the shore, the house was solid, showing little damage. A cold comfort, in every meaning of the word. The plaster was cracked over the stone of the walls, and the air inside was moist and salty. It stung her lips and throat, as she shivered uncontrollably in the wretched sim-furs.

Quoting safety reasons, Soren Basile had insisted to drive her to the house first, and then return for the target. She refrained from questioning his call. Ever since she could remember, Soren had been in the General's close protection team. He left and returned at intervals, and never talked about where he was when he wasn't there, but the General had always placed his trust in him.

Before moving out, Soren had taken the time to inspect the place. He hadn't taken the time to brief her on the findings. It was reasonable to assume there hadn't been any left. But somehow, being reasonable took a lot of effort on her part at the moment.

Stella stared down at her fine leather boots, now splattered, and scratched, and soiled. Part of the strategic costs, same as earlier, with Captain Marcus. She wondered if maybe she should wash her hands. The boots were beyond saving.

Her luggage was still piled in the front hall, on the tiles broken and darkened with mould, where Soren had left it. Stella had clean, warmer clothes in there somewhere, but she couldn't bring herself to unpack. The house, the town, the camp, everything made her skin crawl.

The army's maps and official papers identified the city as "Highwater". The General had chosen the place, meaning it probably had its merits; but Stella had a hard time seeing them right now.

Talking of things she didn't see: Soren appeared in the doorway, the usual frown between his eyebrows. She still hated his habit of moving without sound. It still felt odd seeing him out of uniform. She still saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes, whenever he looked at her.

"So," Soren said. "We're here, miss Brighton."

Here they were, all right, south to nowhere and moving downwards fast. "Where is he?"

Soren nodded, darkly. "Out in the car, handcuffed to the wheel. Figured we have to talk first."

Of course, Soren. I'm always here for you, if, and when, you decide to share. On the other hand, now wasn't the time to dig out old bones. Not all the way out of the ground, at least.

"Did it go well at the camp? No more questions?"

"Some more questions. But I took the captain aside and had another chat. The file they had on him was classified, special category status. Hey, I said to him. Ever wondered how come you got stuck with a damn SCS, Cerna inmate here, in the underbelly of the Taskforce? You have perfect documents, with a general's stamp on them. Do you really want to learn what's going on? Turns out he's a reasonable guy, who couldn't care less. They had him identified, signed some papers, and opened the gates for me."

She nodded her assent. Marcus had struck her as a reasonable man, too. Smart enough to settle for a comfortable place, and when the going got tough, keep his head down and blame it on the paperwork. So, then, the healthy kind of coward; far less interesting than the man left to freeze down in the car, instead of freezing in here, with the two of them.

"Not so smooth with him, I take it. Is he dangerous?" Stupid question, she hadn't met a soldier who wasn't. "Hostile?"

"I can handle him." Said nodded again, solemnly, grim. "You will not like it, miss."

She fed him the General's favourite line, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture.

"I don't expect to like it, Soren."

"Sit rap, first. The house seems safe," Soren said, choosing to ignore her. "Humble. The sort of place for the General to keep an operation going."

Stella shivered, visibly. Her shoulders were slowly going numb. It wasn't only the chill.

"A black op," she said, just to keep things clear. Marcus was possibly the highest-ranking officer in the area, and he had no clue.

"Of sorts." Soren sounded like a man with a sprained jaw. "I mean, he authorised it, after all. You and me, we're fine. Following orders."

She fought to keep the doubts from showing on her face. The mere topic of Cerna was fraught with danger, with talk of faulty intel, conflicting reports, and calls for a commission, to inquire into the costs of the operations, and the causes of Viviani's fiasco. This was an extraction of a Cerna prisoner, with far too many undisclosed details. Soren better pray following orders cut it, should it blow up in their faces. Stella buried her hands deep into her pockets. She could always blame it on the cold.

"Go on."

"The utility room is a pile of rust. I started the heating, but it'll take a couple of hours at least. Thick walls, poor signal. I'd say no bugs, miss. Streaming service's all out of order. Bullshit Network is still better than nothing, so I'll see what I can do about it. Satellite surveillance is a risk we have to take."

"All satellites are military. Wouldn't they focus on the camp?

"Maybe, maybe not. We're close enough, and I don't really know what to hope for here. The upstairs bedroom is more sheltered. You can have it. I'll take the guest room downstairs. There's an office, also. He can go in there, but it'll take some adjustments. I want him nowhere near things blunt, sharp or loaded."

The wind howled, rattling the windows. Stella settled better in her chair. Lack of connectivity was the least of her problems at the moment, but it added to the feeling of seclusion, and it annoyed her. Monitored isolation, and with a dangerous target. Her eyes fell to the gun Soren kept in plain sight. Missions didn't come any better than this.

"We'll be all right, miss." Soren ran his fingers through his short hair and sighed in frustration

"He has a safety bracelet on."

The fact sheets she'd reviewed did not mention any tracking systems. "Is it camp procedure? What's the range? Marcus receives the alert?"

"Marcus said he never had the tracking codes. It's not camp procedure. Special category status, miss," he reminded her, shrugging one shoulder. "Normally, these things are data linked to a satellite, but I told you, not sure about cover here. Maybe it doesn't even work. But if he thinks it does, it's a way of controlling him. At least until we figure some of this out."

"I don't know, Soren." Bracelets were expensive; they took authorization. The General, of course, had the required level of clearance. "Maybe we should try and reason with him. Obtain target cooperation, remember?"

She shifted in her chair, waiting for his reaction. It wasn't their first discussion. Soren didn't agree with her approach, and he had a point.

Stella had never dealt with dangerous war prisoners; but she'd dealt with the General. This man wasn't free, but there was no indication of coercion, either. It was never about scruples with her father. It was about efficiency: If violence was the road to success here, he would have travelled it already.

Soren let out a long, drawn out breath. "He'll cooperate, if he doesn't have a choice. The bracelet isn't just a tracking device. It also works as a stun gun.

"Captain Marcus said he made an escape attempt when he first arrived at the camp, and they triggered it. Nearly killed him, that one. Burnt into his arm; I saw the scars. But he never made the second, so maybe he knows better by now."

The thought sickened her. A cluster of trained Taskforce guards couldn't find another way to contain an unarmed runaway? But then again, she'd already decided Marcus was workshy. He'd taken the easy way out.

"I don't want to use it. That device is a horror."

"It's still better than him slitting our throats in the middle of the night, miss. Don't forget Cerna was a slaughterhouse, and this man was there, making it happen."

Stella eyed him without hiding her suspicions. "You don't really know what he's done, Soren. Or do you?"

"I only know what's written in the file," the man countered. "But I also know a self-righteous bastard with a grudge, when I see one. Remember how Cerna always claimed they were the innocent victim in all this? Well, that pretty much makes us the aggressors. And he hates our guts, so don't kid yourself, miss. This here is a hostile extraction."

Stella swallowed heavily around the lump in her throat. She couldn't hide from the uncomfortable truth. Soldiers believed what their commanding officers told them to believe, and Cerna's official version accused a satellite highjack, an invasion orchestrated by the Collective Defence Organisation, with the Western Coalition playing right into their hands.

Anxious, but unwilling to let it show, Stella went to the window and pretended to study the fallen satellite. The thing had once been out there, circling the earth with the moon and the stars. Now, it was an unholy relic, what parts had survived the re-entry scattered at random across the sand: parts of the motor casing, a broken limb, the oxidised skeleton of a tank. It provided unnecessary confirmation of how far Highwater was from everything: Under the Technology Decommissioning Treaties, all spacecraft was to be taken down in low population areas.  


Despite the treaties, Cerna had placed satellites on orbit. But then, so did everyone else, under the national security exceptions: supervision of communication, of borders, and policing the population. Not even espionage warranted an international incident, as long as it was kept discrete. The Cerna satellite, however, had launched a full-blown kinetic air strike on a CDO puppet state. Just like they said during the decom ops: havoc in the skies, havoc on earth.

"I think it's better if I speak to him," she told Soren. "He might see me as less of a threat."

"But it's late, miss," Soren said, with a sigh. "I'll arrange it in the morning."

"Not in the morning, Soren." He was wrong to hope maybe she'd change her mind. "And the hour is an advantage. He's tired, probably confused. The time is now."

Soren's face mirrored his exact views on her idea. It wasn't a happy look; nor an optimist one. "Handcuffs stay on, and I stay right outside the door."

She nodded. "I can work around that."

"What will you tell him?"

The truth. Something about people prompted them to exchange one confidence for another even when they shouldn't. Sometimes, especially because they shouldn't. On the other hand, she had no clue about this man, so maybe not necessarily the whole truth. Just enough.

"I'm thinking."

Soren gave her a long, black stare. "You're a decent liar, miss. My two cents? Go with that."


	3. Chapter 3

  
STELLA's fingers ghosted over the file, a custom folder with the round logo of the Northern Taskforce standing out red against the yellowish cover.

Watermarked "219667", the picture on the front page was a print taken from security camera footage. It showed military attire, light stubble on a chiselled, wan face, and short, light hair. The deep-set eyes, possibly, a light shade, had come out whitish on the low-cost paper. Leaning slightly forward, shoulders tense, like a man with his hands bound behind him, he stared straight into the camera, with pure, unadulterated hate.

He was identified as Ante, Gunn R., private first class. The date of birth was listed as August 3, 2129, and the place simply as "Pojina", same as the place of capture. The file included dog tags, retinal scans, and a set of fingerprints.

With the ever-present risk of violence, the decision to relocate Cerna PoWs had been embraced by all allies: An obscure article of the Third Brussels Treaty provided the grounds for his transfer into Western territory, for a 10-year term.

Post relocation status, however, was alien resident, based on a private custody agreement, for the maximum 10-year term. The contract named Kevin S. Brighton, and his next of kin, as beneficiaries, and household work as scope of services.

Consideration was limited to fulfilment of basic needs. All civil rights and privileges, including the right to life, were cancelled for the same period. It amounted to forced labour, under a fancy name. An ID, showing the same picture and listing Highwater as place of residence, was appended to the front cover with a rusted paper clip. If the information in the file were real, the permit should have been in his possession.

She'd gone over the file times and again. The picture still unsettled her. This mission already came with a list of improbable tasks; obtain target cooperation was a strong contender for top place. An actual conversation with him made for a close second.

By the time Soren finally brought him in, Stella still didn't feel up to the challenge. She'd decided to have the talk in the kitchen, where the freezing cold showed meagre signs of recess. She needed some control over the situation, and the room was a reasonable setting, orderly, and with basic, but functional furnishings.

"I'll wait outside," Soren said, with a last look of warning in her direction.

The Cerna enigma waited at attention by the door. He was tall, fine-looking, in the rough, unfinished way of people too thin for their bones. He wore a tattered airborne sweater over army-issued fatigues. He had a full head of wild, overgrown hair. His eyes were blue, with a bruised, sunken look. With the advantage of size, he looked down on her, jaw set, and lips pressed tightly together. As much as hostility went, the live act was no different from the picture.

Her attention shifted to the bracelet around his wrist, blinking red and white at intervals. True to his word, Soren had left his handcuffs on top. Under the table, Stella tapped her foot.

"I'm sorry about the... precautions. You've met Soren."

He maintained a defiant silence; but the wheels were turning inside his head. All other distinctions aside, he was a soldier, under new and hostile circumstances. His military training compelled him to look for benchmarks. Adapt to discomfort and uncertainty; assess what cooperation, or lack of cooperation might mean; and find a way out, at all costs.

"You can take the grey chair, if you want."

He didn't move at first. She sat at the table, and pretended to examine the contents of the file, giving him time to reach a conclusion on his own. However long it took. After a while, he shuffled his feet to the table, and sat on the edge of the grey chair.

"We need to talk about why you're here." She extracted the fact sheet from the file. "But first, let's confirm some basic information. 219667, Gunn R. Ante, private first class, Cerna National Army." She searched his eyes, and held them. "May I call you Gunn?"

He looked away from her. "Fine, ma'am," he drawled, and drew his eyebrows together over tightened eyelids. So, not fine. Still, Stella managed a blank face.

"All right, Gunn." From the file, she selected the alien resident permit, and laid it on the table. "Can you confirm this is also you?"

His squinted at the papers. "Has my face on it, ma'am. But it's wrong."

"You were released from military custody based on this document. They said it was fine."

He sat straighter in his chair, clenching his jaw. "It's forced labour."

"It does keep people out of camps," Stella said, a little surprised by his political statement. He'd signed that contract, hadn't he? Many PoWs jumped at the chance, whether fully aware of what they were getting into, or not. But for most people, the realisation of their mistake ocurred after the contract had been enforced, and not before. "Necessary harm. When's your birthday, Gunn?"

For the first time tonight, he seemed fazed. His shoulders went sheet-metal stiff. "Should be in there, ma'am."

"January 10?" Stella asked, pretending to check the documents.

"No," he said, without hesitation this time. "November, 13."

"Oh, my mistake." She consulted the file, unnecessarily. "It actually says August, 3."

"The army always messes up the fact sheets. It's November, 13."

The army did mess up the fact sheets. Or, he excelled at dogging questions. Stella released a long breath. "Let's try this again.

Your file includes a civilian custody arrangement with your certified signature. Which begs the question: why were you in a prisoner camp?"

"I hate laundry day, ma'am," he said. But it wasn't sarcasm, exactly, not even the army's pathetic attempt at it. He sounded almost indifferent.

She took a moment to think. There were ways of getting people to talk; just not reliable ones she'd heard of. Her instinct warned that the more aggressive the approach, the more this man would withdraw, and she won't be able to reach him. Stella put down the file, folding her arms on top of it.

"OK. I realise things are not ... optimal. But I refuse to play this game, Gunn. It's nothing but a waste of time and nerves."

Honesty wasn't the best policy, after all. He jutted out his chin. "I'm held under the Brussels Convention. I don't have to talk to intelligence ops."

"You broke the Decom Treaties," Stella said, with a bit of a bite. "The Western Coalition does not apply the exception to Cerna. But really, Gunn, I only asked about your name, rank and personal status. That hardly qualifies under the exception, anyway. I didn't ask about the war, did I? I am not an operative. I'm only an analyst, currently on leave. This is not an interrogation facility, it's my house. And I'm just trying to understand. We're just having a conversation."

He looked away from her, shaking his head slowly. "My mom taught me never to talk to strangers."

Point taken. She should have given a name from the very beginning, as per the procedure; in her defence, her name was a little in the way here. Stella buried her fingers in the fur around her neck.

"I'm Stella Brighton. General Brighton was my father."

His reaction was subtle: a mere tightening of the muscles in his face. "Condolences, ma'am."

"Really?"

He bowed his head, staring down at the bracelet like it was the first time he'd seen it. "No. I'm just being polite."

"You hated him." In all honesty, she couldn't hold it against him. He was an enemy soldier the General had captured; and the feeling was quite common even among his allies.

"People always assume you must hate someone to want him dead. This time, it's correct."

She reassessed him. This level of insolence was uncommon for a soldier, but not for an officer. He was too young to have climbed high up the ranks. He'd somehow crossed path with the General, despite that. And whatever had gone down between the two of them, his resentment was personal.

"I don't know what my father intended with you, and your file. But he's gone now, and I'm stuck with a legal, registered document. I'd rather keep Civilian Affairs off my back," she said, because a custody contract had fiscal implications, tough no one had ever dared bother the General about that.

"Can we just get along, Gunn? I am not my father."

"No, you're not," he said, a searching quality to his expression. "He was never this ... suave. Ma'am, may I ask a question? What happened to the General?"

Her fingers pulled at the soft, slick fur, moving to a will of their own. She should tell him. Questions and answers were the foundation of conversation. He might even grow into the habit of talking to her. It made sense for her to answer; even at the risk of him taking some twisted form of pleasure in the details. Even if his 'suave', same as the annoying 'ma'am' attached to everything, as per regulations, sounded almost like an insult.

"A bomb went off in front of his car," she said, mouth dry and uncomfortable. "He, and his entire protection team, were killed on the spot."

If he enjoyed the news, he at least had the decency not to show it. He raised his bound arms, and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. The bracelet took to blinking, red, and purple, and white, then red again, frantically. It was getting on her nerves, making it hard to focus. She could only imagine what it must be like for him.

"Does it always do that?"

"Sometimes. Lately." He frowned, looked at the bracelet, and then back at her. "Satellite cover must be different here."

The numbness in her shoulders ran along her arms, and descended into her fingers. She drove her hand inside her pockets, and close a tight fist. If the General was tracking this man, he must have done it over a private device that was currently off line. If found, it would be searched.

The bracelet needed to go. Straight into the sea, maybe. Or maybe not; going under the radar might call attention. She had to talk to Soren, to better understand the implications. And she needed to end this meeting she no longer knew where to take. A strategic retreat, then. Better men had done it.

"Your GenAm is perfect, you know."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Cerna has schools. Had. They're all bombed down now."

Did they also teach avoidance tactics? Stella bit her tongue, reminding herself of the 'gloves stay on' approach. "Soren prepared a room for you. I think maybe you and he started off on the wrong foot. Maybe we all did, and things will be different in the morning."

"Highly unlikely."

"Don't fight just for the sake of it, Gunn," she told him. "You will not necessarily win."

"That's all right, ma'am." He starred down at her, and something dark lurked in the blue irises. "I'm used to it."

She was still in the kitchen hours later, too tired to move, or concern herself with the logistics of settling in. Soren was perfectly able to deal with all that. Buried in an uncomfortable chair, in the gradually warming silence of the house, Stella weighted the things she'd revealed against the new information she'd gathered: he spoke a non-specific form of English, with no marking features whatsoever. Absolute zero.

Rome wasn't built in a day. She'd just have to talk to him again. The mission didn't require them to debrief him. She simply needed to understand enough to grasp how this 'cooperation' might work.

Stella picked up the touchscreen. The official network was still off, with no chance to a secure one in sight. All she had was the fact sheet downloaded from her office cloud, and that was almost useless.

She only kept benign, work documents in the office cloud. Stella owed her analyst position to the General's rank. Many incommode officers had been removed from command, over corruption or incompetence charges brought against their immediate family. She got the job done, hopping people might forget about her last name; which was childish.

Once the General was out of the picture, she'd been released of duties, and placed on indefinite leave "to come to terms with her loss". She was an army brat, only too aware of the terms. But keeping busy would have been nice. She hadn't even known where to turn to, until Soren approached her with the General's last orders. Her last words to her: an assignment sheet.

With renewed determination, she scrolled down the page, slaloming between the boring, the irrelevant, and the restricted pieces of intel.

The fast facts were muddled. Like all Balkan wars, it was a messy affair, with plenty backstabbing, mutual atrocities and mutual accusations. Cerna had unresolved territorial issues with the neighbouring CDO puppet state. In theory, Cerna didn't have the power to stand up to the CDO for long; but the army turned out surprisingly combat ready. Even the more experienced analysts of the Taskforce were dumbfounded. How had mere border skirmish escalated into the deadliest conflict in the region's recent history?

The touchscreen flickered, switching to low power mode. She turned it off. Soren was yet to check the outlets, and Stella didn't want to risk it. The device was the only connection with the outside world.

Her thoughts returned to how she'd failed to establish a connection earlier, with Gunn. She'd believed his personal circumstances to be the safer topic. Maybe she should have taken the classic interrogation approach. Maybe she should have asked him about the war.

 


	4. Chapter 4

 

Gunn walked out of the meeting with a visceral hissing screech in his ears, and the lingering scent of Stella Brighton's very distinctive perfume – top notes of exotic fruits, some exotic flowers in the middle, and more exotic lies at the base.

An expensive mix, with deadly potential.

No doubt remained in his mind: Brighton's pretty daughter was after him. He'd guessed her identity from the moment he'd stepped foot inside the room. She had the General's eyes, sharp, the colour of fog and steel. Her tactics were similar, also: remarkably self-possessed, ignoring all attempts at provocation, and not expecting him to fall for her little 'helpless before the administration' act. Not expecting him to swoon all over her like Captain Marcus back at the camp, either. Hers was the competent delivery of an analyst's narrative, one that looked reasonable enough from a distance, but the details of which did not match. A calculating Stella Brighton had waited for him to challenge the official scenario – and gather whatever information about him she could in the process.

Surely, she knew enough of Brighton's secrets to snatch Gunn from the claws of the Taskforce. Her intel, same as her perfectly authentic fake file, originated from the General. But whatever details she had missing, she was out hunting for them, and whatever the Cooler's plan, she was here to carry it through.

Just bloody fucking A.

"You're angry, Cerna," Blackwater said, as they stepped inside the room.

You don't say.

Gunn kept his eyes ahead, staring into the distance. Maybe if he pretended not to hear, the other might let him be. No such luck. Blackwater circled around, and stopped right in front of him. In the dim light, Gunn could not make out the expression on his face.

"She does that, you know. It's a talent of hers."

"I bring out the best in people. It's a talent of mine."

"You're a smart-ass. I get it. You can cut it off now. You're angry here, and there's this look to you, like you're about to do something very, very stupid. I'd rather it doesn't blow out in all our faces."

Gunn jutted out his chin. Was Blackwater playing good cop for a change? So much for sleeping over it, if that was the case. At least he knew how much price to put on Stella Brighton's word.

"Is this round two, civil contractor? Will it be you and your gun, you and your bracelet, or you and your Taskforce friends? I can do this all night."

Even in the dark, Blackwater's eyes bore holes into him. "It'll be you and your shit for brains," he said, after a brief moment of silence. Then he seemed to make up his mind. "Fuck with me here, and I will fuck you up. Hands."

The man's meaning was lost on him. "Hands?"

"Yes, Cerna, you know the drill." Not waiting for an answer, he grabbed Gunn's arms and turned his wrists upwards, produced a key and removed the handcuffs in one quick, practiced move. He stepped back at a safe distance and disappeared the restraints inside his pocket.

"Door stays locked," he warned. "You may want to think twice about setting fire to the place or anything."

Gunn bit his tongue. He didn't really have to have the last word here. It served him better if, for the time being, things didn't escalate further.

The door snapped shot. He searched the bare room, massaging his numb wrists. It might have been an office once. Some shelves were still up on the walls, but all the books had been removed. A basic desk, with a plastic water botte on top, was floor-fixed, recently bolted down. The window was locked shut. On the cracked wooden floor, an insulated, non-specific sleeping bag had been left for him.

Improvisation; it either sank, or it swam. Stella Brighton had to make do here, as well.

Outside, winds pushed solid walls of mist over the skeleton of the fallen satellite. He listened to the tumbling of the waves, to the occasional cracking of the old house, to the soft buzz of the bracelet around his wrist. Back at the camp, the constant noises of the barracks helped remind him where he was, and, in particular, where he wasn't. Here, he had silence.

The water bottle was sealed. Gunn opened it, and took a long drink, and then another. He was thirsty, strained, and maybe a little relieved over that second round being postponed for morning. He was so bone-tired he might even sleep.

Silence and privacy, a whole room to himself; this new prison had its share of benefits.

The bracelet's soft buzz turned to a shrill. The lights got weird again. Gunn inhaled a sharp breath. The thing was malfunctioning, had been for a while now. It might go crazy, and shock him. Then again, Brighton was dead, and the fact that no one had bothered to fix it possibly meant there was no one left to track him.

Brighton was dead.

Two generals in charge of operations in Cerna had lost their lives, one after another. A bullet had made contact with Viviani's head, despite his strong, special forces close protection team. Brighton was surrounded by MPs everywhere he went, and had somehow succumbed to a car bomb.

He had no complaints about Brighton being dead. Except Gunn had been in armoured cars. He'd gone down that road, slaloming among the potholes popping up at every turn. Matko had trouble steering the limited mobility SUV through the sludge. The car wobbled, sending them back and forward like dolls. Gunn wished he would let him drive.

A massive storm had swept over Cerna the night before. Powerlines remained down, and many roads, closed. Gunn scanned the perimeter. It took five to twelve years of constant care for an olive tree to grow and make fruits. These never would. Some of the tranches had collapsed overnight. The orchard was one huge excavation site, with blackened stumps scattered all around. Limb-like roots crisscrossed the ground. The diggings oozed with rainwater. Gunn rubbed the back of his hand over his eyes.

"CATFU six ways 'till Sunday, Skylight," Matko said. He liked Gunn for some reason. Or he just liked to swim against the current. He talked to him. He pulled his leg. He'd volunteered to be teamed together. And he never asked him about anything.

"We can't hold it, the way it is. Sending those boys down now's bloody murder."

"I know."

"But Rehak will send them anyway, if it delays the Taskforce."

Gunn agreed with him. In his opinion, General Luka Rehak, the ultimate leader of Cerna for nearly 20 years, was nothing short of a psychopath. He followed his own ends, body count be damned.

"There's nothing I can do." The hardened corporal's tone dropped a notch. It carried across more than the meaning of the words, a hidden message. "Can you?"

Gunn kept staring ahead. They'd been fighting side by side for two years now. He shared his food with this man. Crashed next to him at rest time. Got his back. He might end up the last face Gunn saw on this earth. Suddenly, he was a stranger, just like the rest of them, seeking favours Gunn could not provide.

"I have no contact with the Taskforce, Matko. You know that."

Matko bobbed his head. Maybe in response. Or it was another bump in the road. Gunn wondered if the other believed him. It mattered, for some reason, that he did. But he wondered, with everything fought and lost, if it made any difference at all.

The projectile went off right in front of them, opening a hell mouth of flames and smoke. The blast threw the armoured car off course, sending it into the nearest tree trunk. The impact landed Matko's face straight into the wheel, and propelled it back, into the headrest. And then, into the wheel again. Gunn's head went through the passenger window, and time disintegrated into jelly-like particles. The stench of rotten earth, charred rubber, and hot metal filed the air.

In the distance, the car console blinked and twittered in maddening distress. The sound broke through the jelly. Things slowly returned into focus. His temple throbbed. Gunn touched it, feeling at the slivers of glass. His fingers came away crimson.

A goddamn AT mine; the Taskforce was days away from Pojina. Something more than the storm had destroyed their defences: an inside job, under the cover of the storm. With every single day, Cerna spiralled down faster and faster into civil war.

"Jesus," Matko repeated, dazed. "Jesus fucking Christ! You alive there, Skylight?"

Later, the MD treated Matko for contusion, a broken arm and a broken nose, and Gunn for the head injury, with moderate risk of oedema. The car required a new window, and bodywork revamp they could barely afford; but the crew had made it out.

An armoured car was meant to preserve life. The Taskforce had informants, satellites, security cameras, state of the art technology in general. Failure to protect the CO translated as either incompetence in the outmost degree, or intent. From Gunn's experience with the Taskforce, neither was entirely out of question. It was only a matter of probabilities: It was possible for an attack to kill the second man in the hierarchy of the Taskforce. But it wasn't likely.

He slept poorly, jerking awake just as he was drifting to sleep, to the sensation of falling or sinking. He dreamed, of Matko, and the boy, and fighter planes over Pojina. And, towards morning, of him, standing ready for lift-off that last time.

He was already up when the key screeched into the metal lock, still fighting the echoes of Liam's voice. Controlled, it still spoke the commands in his ear. On screen, the countdown had flickered green, in specific sequence. He iterated the highlights: sentinel missile released at T plus 45; at T plus 23, begin the roll; stand by for deploy, at T plus 13. His hands moved firmly over the commands. It didn't matter whose voice it was. He was one the machine, as viable and dent-resistant as the aluminum skin panels.

" _Fire Sky, stand by, Fire Sky, do you copy?_ "

The divide between then and now got his back up. He craved, deep in his bones, to break, and shout, and shoot.

The door opened. Gunn clutched his fists behind his back. Blackwater's gaze slithered over him like a garter snake.

"There's warm water. But not for long."

Frustration clang to his skin like gunpowder. Nodding, Gunn picked up the sweater, and the boots he'd kicked off last night. He waited, grudgingly, for the handcuffs to make an entrance. Blackwater simply turned around, and started down the hall.

The countdown from the dream reverberated in his brain. Gunn switched to radio silence, and walked, glaring at the other man's broad shoulders. The floor was cold and rough under his feet. He shouldn't look for a consistent pattern here. The whole point was to keep him guessing.

The bathroom was small, bare, and serviceable. A timid cloud of steam rose from water that had been left running. The shower walls were coated with condensation. There was no curtain, only the open door.

Blackwater pressed his back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. Gunn was starting to recognize his routine: control the exits, and keep his back covered. Combat usually taught you the first; friendly fire, the second.

Gunn threw him a slanted look. "Planning to watch?"

"Yeah." His face was expressionless. "You watch it, too."

"Sure," Gunn said. His hands were shaking, fingers curling inside his palms. "Hey, fuck you, Soren."

"No dice, Cerna." He gave Gunn a cocky grin. "It's the personality. But mostly, the hair."

Gunn handled the shower with military efficiency. He stepped out, wrapped a towel around himself, and risked a glance in the mirror. A stranger stared him back, skin taut over the bones of the face, hair damp and falling out of order, lips stretched too tight over his teeth.

Without lingering on the reflection, Gunn picked up the tooth brush, and then moved on to the shaving. The morning ritual, at least, was constant. It had a calming effect, even on Blackwater, who waited in silence, staring into nothing. Gunn searched, but could not meet his eyes in the mirror. Did he detect traces of human decency here? It didn't matter. The countdown had taken on again, and this time he had no intention of stopping it.

Once done, he reached for his clothes. Blackwater shook his head.

"Over there."

He found a bundle of clothes 'over there': a white tee, and a pair of faded jeans, about a size too large. He put them on mechanically, laced his boots, and pulled his old sweater over his head.

"All done." With his mind's eye, he kept watching the scroll down. "Hey, Soren. May I have a cigarette? I'll let you hold the lighter for me."

"That's illegal." Blackwater's eyes lingered on his face with their dark, appraising look. "And expensive. But yeah, maybe. Later."

"Later." Gunn sketched a humorless smile. He remembered back at the camp, him sharing his cigarettes with the soldiers. "Carrot and stick."

"Stick to carrots. They won't kill you."

Gunn closed the distance between them, struggling to control the tension in his body. He'd surprised himself with how normal his voice sounded. His heart rate pulsed deep in his throat. He stopped by the other man's side.

"Everything kills. Even breathing. Life is a terminal process."

"Deep, Cerna. Wonder – "

At once, Gunn turned towards him, and nailed a vicious left hook on the man's jaw. Not giving him the chance to up his game, Gunn followed with a right hand shot. It landed cleanly on the side of Blackwater's face. He went down, blood oozing from his mouth.

Standing over him, Gunn slammed his booted foot under Blackwater's ribs. He aimed again, going full force for the stomach. He sent the other man crashing into the wall, barely giving him the chance to raise his arms to his head. In a blur of movement, Gunn kicked Blackwater's arms away, and searched his pockets. He retrieved the gun first, then the remote: left back pocket of the man's jeans. He raised the pistol, and pulled off the safety. Blackwater stared at him, wild-eyed.

"Think, Cerna!" Blood and spite spewed from his mouth. "You don't want to do this!"

He wanted to do this. This was what he did. This was his last three years in hell, and all the humiliation, and the anger. It wasn't even all that different, shooting someone at close range; Brighton's pet dog in particular. Except maybe for the mess. But he wasn't in the least worried over the clothes.

"God says goodnight, soldier," Gunn told him, and pulled the trigger.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

  
IT didn't feel like anything.

The first chamber had been left empty.

Shock delayed his initial reaction. Strong fingers gripped his ankle. Blackwater barked a curse, referencing foul deeds and the bones of the dead. His hold was chain-like. Gunn tried to kick it off, but the man's boot made hard contact with his exposed knee. The impact brought water to Gunn's eyes. He went down in his turn, tumbling on top of Blackwater.

The gun flew from his hand, rolling on the floor with a metallic clack, far out of their reach. Gunn clutched the remote inside his fist and struggled, landing hit after hit. Blackwater dived back at him, still cursing.

His blows fell, as inevitable as a satellite strike on unsuspecting industrial workers. Gunn merged with the fallout, descending into rage. He pushed forward, through the field of debris, head ringing with call signs of total wipe-out.

Downtown, the power of the blast had cut down the houses at strange angles. A few shelves dangled on the wall of the school library, displaying backbones of charred books. A snipper riffle went on at intervals from the roof of the hotel. He struggled to return fire at ground level, taking cover by the burning ruins. On the way, they'd passed the dead and wounded, still scattered outside the market. Planes criss-crossed the sky above, white with dust, and heavy like a shroud.

"Fall back," he yelled, through the deafening howl of the sirens. There was blood on the soles of his boots, blood on the cobblestone, on the soft, fresh leaves of the fig trees, standing purple against the green. And red, under his eyelids. His head was spinning, frantic, temples pulsing with the vertigo. "Goddamn, fall back, Matko! Stay down!"

He tightened his grip of the rifle, his palms wet, slippery on the stock. The words echoed absurdly, bouncing against invisible walls of space. How the hell did he end up by the bombed school library?

"Just stay the fuck down!"

He'd be right under the wall when it crumbled, he thought, stricken by terror. A blow landed low under his ribs, and he couldn't stifle the scream.

"Gunn! Stop it! Gunn, let him go!"

His head jerked back and forward, to a split second lightning, and a rush of adrenaline. He was still on the floor, arm locked around Blackwater's neck, in a brutal triangle choke. The man tossed about wildly, throwing desperate punches at him. By their side, eyes wide with panic, was Stella Brighton.

He saw her lips move; saw her extend her arm, registered the beaconing device in the palm of her hand. The split second it took him to understand was more than it took her.

Pain hit his arm first. It snaked along his nerves, spreading inside his body like a virus. It burnt into his brain. Gunn shuddered and let go, unable to move; or remember what he was fighting for.

The world shifted, starting to raise above him. Or he was sinking; into static, and spots of light in the darkness of space.

 _Starting two degrees per second roll, Fire Sky standing by for deploy, do you copy, command_?

"Take your finger off that button! You're killing him!"

Something hammered into his chest once, twice, stifling. Oxygen, sucked into the vacuum, hurt his lungs. Matko leaned over him. Grey matter leaked through the demon mouth on his temple. His ghost fingers felt cool at the base of his neck.

"Let go." A broken whisper, in the Balkan dialect. "Take your hands of me, Matko. You're dead."

"You have a dead wish here, Skylight?"

_Not if it hurts this fucking much._

Pain jolted him back. Gunn gnashed his teeth with powerless anger. The hands withdrew. He kept shaking, crumpled down on the ground, until the muscle contractions became bearable.

Through the sweat in his eyes, the ceiling was close, and it was far. Also on the floor, head on top of his bent knees, Blackwater breathed, in and out, in a deliberate cadence. Stella Brighton kneeled next to him, hands clasped tightly into her lap. "Gunn?"

"You stunned me," Gunn muttered. Even his lips hurt.

"Don't move. Let me see." Her voice was shaking.

"It's reactive. Just shock," Blackwater said. He raised his head and wiped the blood from his lips with his sleeve. "Get some water, miss. Vitamin C, if you have any. Miss Brighton!" He ordered, when she did not react. "Move! I've got this."

"Yes." She drew herself up, and the ugly, swollen face came into his field of vision.

"Crazy motherfucker." He scooped next to Gunn, and held up his head, staring him dead in the eye. "Do not get a fucking panic attack on me. You're breathing, you have a pulse. You'll live. Expect muscle spasms, and a bitch of a headache. And, I hope, a helluva lot of bruising."

He wasn't having a goddamn panic attack. Blackwater sounded like he might. Gunn gave to speak. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth. God, he was thirsty! He gulped, and tried again.

"You're still pretty."

"Shut the fuck up," the man snapped. He grabbed Gunn's shoulders, pulling at him. "Come on, sit up. Can you?"

"Yes." He could sit up, of course; just – not right now. Swearing again, Blackwater prompted him against the wall. Dizzy with movement, Gunn squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again and searched his face. Light played strangely on the twisted features, and it blurred the picture.

"This is your chance," he panted. "Take it. I would."

"Yeah, well." Blackwater spat a mouthful of rust-coloured fluids. "Your brand of crazy's limited edition."

Gunn rested his head back, recalling yesterday. Blackwater won't kill him, when he could hurt him instead. They wanted him alive.

Stella Brighton ran down the corridor, a bottle in her hand. Blackwater gestured at her to stop. She tossed the bottle at him, and froze at a safe distance, watching them carefully, face pale.

"How is he?"

"Insane," Soren said, over his shoulder. He uncorked the bottle, and pushed it in Gunn's hand. "Drink."

He gulped it down in one go. The water tasted faintly of metal and medicine. Again, his mind was slogging behind.

"What's in it?"

Blackwater scoffed. "Cost containment."

"It's just a mild sedative," Stella Brighton said. Her voice was calm, controlled, in contrast with her ashen face. "Your heart rate is through the roof, Gunn. You could have died. You need to calm down."

"You need to stop running high voltage through me, you bitch."

"Hey, watch -"

She cut off Blackwater.

"Yes, I do. If Soren helps you out, do you think you could walk?"

It was kicking in already. He was losing focus. "I don't know," he slurred.

"Oh, fuck it," the man said. "I'll carry him."

She said something back, but their voices were already fading into the distance. At the edge of his vision, the floor tiles danced, sliding back and forth into their holes. Gunn blinked a couple of times, and slowly closed his eyes.

 


	6. Chapter 6

 

  
"YOU should calm down, too, miss," Soren said. "It's not as bad as it looks."

Stella curled her fingers around the steaming cup. She'd thought the boost of caffeine might help, but now she couldn't bring herself to drink it. Soren's face was the poster picture of bare-knuckle apocalypse, black and blue and swollen in all the wrong places. His movements, too, were heavy and stiff.

After the fight, he'd grabbed a first aid kit and disappeared inside the bathroom, brushing off Stella's concern and offer to help. He had to be in pain, but the vibe she'd most gotten from him was anger. It was there now, still etched in the tense line of his shoulders.

"How's Gunn?"

Soren shrugged one shoulder, and grimaced in pain. "Sleeping it off."

He would; the sedative she'd slipped into the drink wasn't all that mild. She'd not only restrained and tortured this man. She had drugged him, also. Stella pressed the heels of her hands over her eyes.

"Just what do you tell yourself after you inflict grievous bodily harm on someone, Soren?"

The blast had left her shaken. The punch-drunk expression on Gunn's face, the way his eyes had rolled back, showing the whites, and the way he convulsed on the floor, like a fish out of water. She couldn't get the image out of her head: a human fish, in rugged, indistinct jeans and worn-out military boots, gasping for air.

"Don't turn soft on me, miss. It's messier than how it looks from a cosy office."

Yes, she'd gotten the memo. Until now, Stella had never wasted time wondering what her assessments meant down the line. It wasn't her job. At the moment, the implications were obvious, without caveats or euphemisms. The ops and targets were more than ops and targets, they were people, too. She wasn't sure which was worse anymore: to think of Gunn simply as an asset for the mission, or think of him as a person, and still carry on.

"You did what you had to do," Soren went on, faced with her silence. "You stopped him. It's my fault, anyway. I didn't see it coming." He ran hand over his hair, sighing in frustration. "He seemed more together. I took the bait."

"What's the logic in someone attempting to escape with a tracking device on? Unless it's malfunctioning, and he knows it."

"Escape to where?" Soren turned his eyes down, staring into his own cup, as if the answer he was looking for was to be found on the bottom, drenched in poor coffee. "We're in the middle of bloody nowhere. He snapped, miss. Lost it in there. Maybe it's the war, or maybe he was psycho to begin with. There's no logic behind. It's bloodlust."

The level of aggression she'd witnessed frightened Stella. Gunn was an army man. Every force in the world came with a record of violence and alienation, in and outside the field: suicides, murders, mass shootings, torture, all over the news, every day, to the point where it no longer made front page. The risk of getting stuck with a crazed killer had existed from the onset. She couldn't ignore it. But Soren's grudge, the private war he and Gunn had engaged in from the first moment, had to be factored in. Gunn had been collected, rational despite his anger, when she'd met him last night.

"You draw that conclusion just from him being good at staging a fist fight?"

"There's a name for people who're good at fist fights." Soren scoffed. "Criminals."

"Well, Soren, you're good at it, too." She rubbed at her temples with her fingers. "Let's just stick to the bracelet. The General tracked him."

"Yup," Soren agreed.

"Himself?"

"He didn't trust me with it, miss. I guess he did it himself."

"Over a black terminal," Stella went on. "We have no idea where it is, and who might gain access to it. But there must be a failsafe. Some security protocol in place for ... worst case scenarios. So it could be malfunctioning now. Does it make sense, technically?"

Soren pursed his lips together, thinking. "A tracking system is just a transponder, exchanging data with a satellite, and from there, with the ground station. The check-in is automatic. if it misfires, repeatedly, breakdown is possible. The device no longer knows what to do."

"Do you think Gunn understands the technology behind?"

"Maybe," Soren said. "It's common enough. If – and that's a big if, miss, he stopped to think about it at all."

"Data can be recovered from any terminal, correct? Even black ones can be breached. We can't exclude the risk of someone searching. Or finding the transponder."

"In theory. It's not so easy, in practice, and it's even harder with a failsafe. Besides, if the transponder really is broken, there's no guarantee it would ever go back online."

"A lot of ifs. I don't like the odds. I think we need to get rid of the bracelet. Most residents don't wear one, anyway. And after this morning, I want it gone."

"After this morning, it stays on," Soren announced, stonily. "I can deal with the transponder. Make sure it never works again. But we keep the stun gun."

"The stun gun?" Stella's lips curled in disgust. "I nearly killed him with it, Soren."

"I can teach you how to use it. Stop it, before it gets unsafe."

"No." She raised from the chair, pushed it under the table, and put her arms on the backrest. "No, Soren. It's obscene."

"It's leverage. We need it." Soren tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. "Miss Brighton. He shot me."

"He tried to shoot you. You had the chance to defend yourself. That thing just... takes over." Like it had a mind of its own in her hand. She loathed the feeling. Complete power over another human being was terrifying. From the other side of the bracelet, it couldn't have been any different.

"No. He _shot_ me." He leaned in also, narrowing his eyes. "The only reason I'm breathing is that I had the sense not to keep my gun loaded around him. I was down, unarmed. He pointed the gun, and he fired it. He laughed in my face as he did. What's the difference?"

"None." Stella bit into her lips, searching his gaze. "The bracelet is about control. We want to control what we fear. But we fear what controls us. Everyone hates what they fear, and everyone thinks they're right. It's basic psychology, Soren. A vicious circle. We need to break it. It needs to go."

Soren jutted out his chin and stared her back, his dark eyes arrow-sharp on his battered face. "I don't know about vicious circles. That psycho-mambo-jumbo's all saved up for the hippies in CI, who don't know their head from a hole in the ground. But I know how to take us from A to B, without so many twists and turns."

Obviously not in once piece. A flicker of irritation crossed Stella's face. Soren would never question the General, but he did not trust her. The game was dangerous. She didn't have experience. But the orders were clear. She'd made a mistake, letting him take charge so far. It resulted in a crash dive. She sat back in her chair, and quietly scanned Soren, mapping each sign of injury in sight. Uncomfortable, Soren rearranged his feet under the table.

"What, miss?"

"The operation brief," Stella said, voice calm and composed. "Or that part of it that says it's my call. You've read it. I want that horror taken off, and dealt with. I also want the gun out of sight. I'm the grieving daughter, he's just an alien resident, and you're the guy who doesn't walk about armed to the teeth. I can do without looking more suspicious. If you want to play it safe, don't get sucker-punched again."

Soren's face went pale under the bruises. "And if he comes after you? You're half his size. He's a soldier, who hadn't seen a woman in a long time. I don't need to draw you a picture."

Stella darted her eyes from his, swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat. In her earlier assessment of military violence, she'd conveniently left out rape.

"He won't." She'd take the chance. All part of the strategic costs.

The air between them turned heavy after the discussion. Rather than tiptoeing around her, Soren checked on Gunn, and took the time to quietly work on the fuses and the streaming terminal. He sat at the kitchen table, with her touchscreen and his devices. They both needed to cool down.

Stella considered going out for a run. It rained, of course. Soren kept switching from kitchen to living room, checking this or fixing that, and giving her the cold shoulder while at it. She'd never pulled rank on anyone before. It felt rather marriage-like.

Given the options, she settled for boredom, generously spiked with worry, and guilt. She retired to the room Soren had assigned to her. Down the hall, she made no sound coming from Gunn's.

Soren called from downstairs, a couple of hours later. "Hey, miss. You gotta see this."

She descended to the living room. The touchscreen streamed WCSN, the official military news station.

"It's the westworldweb, of course," Soren said. "Speed connection is passable." He frowned at her. "Why the sour face, miss? You said you don't want to look suspicious. We're expected to watch."

Right. Everybody watched the Bullshit Network. Stella didn't have the stomach for propaganda right now. She scrolled through the shows, just to leave a trace, in case someone checked. But one thing caught her eye.

"General Roland was on Brian Pence. Here's the highlights."

The video had been cropped on the pixelated face of possibly the most powerful men in the Taskforce. With the slow connection, an overlapping ghost image mocked his rehearsed composure. She clicked it open. Out of tune, the picture slogged behind the sound, adding to the whole puppet-show impression.

_"In the West, we have a tradition of trust. I will not disrespect my fellow citizens and sugar-coat the issues we're facing: violence, poverty, the immense challenges to our homeland security in the current international context. My job often poses ethical dilemmas, Mr. Pence. I'm always available to discuss them. But does that contribute to the safety of our society? I think I have a higher duty, a responsibility towards our joint nations."_

"That son of a bitch," Soren said. "Not to sound like I'm cheering for the enemy over here, but the bastard brings home the whole concept of friendly fire."

"Agreed." He'd been the General's CO, and things were strained. Roland had sent the military guard, in full Class A uniform, to present Stella with the flag, and a formal letter of condolence, signed in his hand. And then, a couple of days later, he'd taken Stella's job away from her.

"He's campaigning on," she said. The new type of world leaders wore stars on their shoulders, and a chest full of decorations, instead of a suit and a tie. Roland, in particular, could be extremely aggressive under his public facade.

" _And we're back, with Brian Pence, and «The Pulse». Joining us is General of the Army Frank Roland, Chairmen of the Western Coalition International Joint Chiefs of Staff. General Roland, welcome back._

_"Sir, how do you respond to those opinions that military administration is no longer viable, and only a government, resulting out of free elections, could achieve peace?"_

_"It's one view, Mr. Pence. Frankly, many in the military regard it as no less than treason. But I am a strong supporter of free speech. I welcome any debate on how our society should be ran, naïve as it may be._

_"Not casting a vote, or asking for a permit to move across the country never killed anyone, as far as I am aware of. If they act in good faith, even liberals must admit that peace is a gradual process. Would elections stand between our people and a strike from the CDO? The military is ready to leave power, as soon as it can do so safely._

" _The recent example of Cerna comes to mind as the last in a chain of local conflicts posing the genuine threat of escalation into our territory. Can you imagine the scale of destruction a global conflict would trigger? The army is, above all, protecting our civilisation and way of life."_

_"In your opinion, General, does the current situation compare with the disturbances that occurred during the negotiations for the Decommissioning Treaties, and the early days of their implementation?"_

_"Our homeland is peaceful, Mr. Pence. The days of rioting, and attacks, are long gone. But globally, the level of violence is comparable. Of course, crisis management solutions existed even then, once the International Joint Chiefs of Staff decided to speak in only one voice."_

_"You are referring to the position of General of the Armies. Do you suggest the IJCS should reactivate it?"_

_"I am not suggesting anything. I am stating that solutions exist, and IJCS will identify and implement them. We are not, I repeat, not engaged on the path of war. We are committed, strongly and definitively, to peace; and the first step in its direction is keeping conflict contained, an objective the Taskforce already achieved."_

She turned her eyes away, disgusted, from the approving, plastic perfect face of the anchor. Stella could just picture Roland, signing the condolence letter around a self-congratulatory drink.

The International Joint Chiefs of Staff considered Kevin Brighton as a potential successor for Roland, as a replacement, even, under the right circumstances. The General was constantly breathing down Roland's neck, threatening his position. Even more so after his mission in Cerna, and the swift and successful annihilation of the immediate threat, following two years of heavy combat.

Stella had no proof, but her suspicions were strong. Roland wasn't happy with his position. He aimed at General of the Armies with the International Joint Chiefs of Staff, the ultimate honour.

Fearing the concentration of power in the hands of only one man, the various nationalities in the Taskforce kept the rank inactive. But Roland was working on it, his chances improved by a dramatic increase in the global threat level, challenging the Western Coalition's interests around the world. General Brighton's unexpected death, in an asymmetric attach, helped making his case. He was literally killing a flock of birds with just one stone.

She logged off, debating whether to attempt accessing her services wall, just to keep up appearances. Soren held out his hand.

"If you're done, miss, I want to play with that a little. See what else is around."

Ah; secure connection hunt, round one. Passing the device to him, Stella refrained from asking to be careful. She'd already fed him a piece of the humble pie. Enough was enough for one day.

"I'll fix us something to eat." She gave a strained smile, aiming at reassuring, and falling short. "See what's around, too. Just – don't get your hopes up."

Fingers already running over the screen, Soren frowned at her. "You spend a lot of time in the kitchen these days."

Touché. Back home, she hardly remembered they had one.

"Coffee and sandwiches," she told him, on her way out. "And ibuprofen. How does that sound?"

"Sounds just like the army, miss Brighton."

The whole world sounded just like the army. Felt like it, too. Sella made her way inside the kitchen, and took out what supplies Soren had thought to bring along. It gave her something to do to take her mind off things.

Outside, the light had turned ashen. She went through the moves on autopilot. The sounds of this new place, the foreign texture of it, floated at the edges of her perception. She was placing everything on plates, when her fragile sense of calm shattered. Warning lights beckoned in her reptilian brain. The old kitchen knife slipped between her fingers. Stella turned around, and made eye contact with Gunn.

He watched her from the shadow of a wall, arms folded behind him. The posture confused her: A potential threat, him concealing a makeshift weapon behind his back, or an attempt at a truce, weapons out of sight? She couldn't tell, and the silence stretched, as insatiable and threadlike as a feral cat about to jump.

Strange patterns formed in his eyes as he focused on her. He leaned slowly into the light, and her breath turned shallow. The right side of his face was bruised, temple to cheekbone, crimson with blood shed deep beneath the skin.

"The door was open," he said, at last. His expression added a question mark, and a draft of arctic air. But, other than the bruises, nothing evoked the earlier killing frenzy.

"I know. How are you?"

He shivered, muscles tight and twisted with tension. "Smashing, ma'am."

Soren hovered grimly behind him. "Miss Brighton?"

_Yes, I know, Soren._

Pointedly, Gunn made eye contact. He tipped his head to the side, and pushed his chest forward. At once, a vile thing flashed over his features, and he fell back, shoulders slumped. The retreat didn't match the defiant look in his eyes. It wasn't one. He just steadied himself against the wall – had been, all along.

Stella's face flushed with annoyance. She was out of her depths. She didn't have the skills, nor the inclination to play nurse. She didn't know how to bring it about, without highlighting his weaknesses, frustrating him further. Help came, eventually, from where she less expected it: Soren.

"The sedative is wearing off. There's coffee, and ibuprofen. And this." He reached inside the pocket of his jeans, and threw a crumpled cigarette pack and a red plastic lighter on the table. "Make it last. You just cost me a couple of favours."

Soren raised his arms, hands held out before him. "Look, if you can't make it to that table on your damn two feet, I'm coming closer. I'm not carrying you again."

"I'll make it," Gunn said, still looking at him. But he stayed where he was, braced against the wall.

Soren smirked, and went to sit at the table, his extended legs making a physical claim to the side of the room. Gunn dragged his feet to the opposing chair. The motion sequence was defective, as if the signals travelled in reverse through his body, from the limbs along the spine, and up to the brain.

Stella searched her memory. Mixing coffee and ibuprofen as a pain remedy was common in the army. She had no idea about the potential impact on the sedative, but she filled three coffee mugs anyway, and put them on the table, next to the bottle of ibuprofen.

Soren popped two pills, in glaring demonstration. Gunn cupped the coffee between his hands, covered all the way down by the shapeless sleeves of the airborne sweater. Including the bracelet. Stella felt a pang of relief; and a sharper one, of guilt: He held the drink, drawing in the scent, and stared away, into nothing.

"It's just coffee," she told him. "Bad, but that's all there is."

His head snapped up. "You're awfully nice, ma'am."

"No," Stella said, from the tip of her lips, because it was true, and because she hated being in debt. "I'm just being polite."

The impression of a smile twisted the left side of his face. It didn't reach the battered, right one.

"It's a bit late, ma'am. For coffee." But really, it wasn't about coffee at all. His resentment simmered under the bland words. It really took two parties to fight a war, and two parties to stop it. Apparently, he'd chosen to fight all his battles today. The forecast said failure; but she tried again.

"There's still ibuprofen."

His answer followed, by rote.

"I'm allergic." The eyes stayed frozen, fenced by rings of darkness.

"Hey." Soren snapped. "Just drink the damn coffee, take the damn pills, and curb it."

Gunn laughed, quietly, and seized the cigarette pack. He pulled one out, and lit it. The flame danced as he held it. He drew in a mouthful, released the smoke, and stared at Soren point blank.

"Here," he said. "All better."

He put off the cigarette, into the coffee plate. Soren's nostrils flared. Stella threw him a sharp look: do not engage. Then, she noticed that Gunn's childish cigarette stunt had bared his hands. The fingers were bloodless, and the knuckles thorn, and abraded.

Those hands had pointed the gun at Soren, and fired. He could have stopped then. He could have stopped at any given time, but he hadn't, even with all the damage Soren had inflicted, or the damage he'd caused on himself.

Bloodlust, Soren had said, with no logic behind. But there was a logic to the fight, and to the refusal to medicate; a disturbing, self-destructive one, lurking under the surface.

"Let's just eat," Stella said. It felt just like a bloody crash dive.

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
GUNN glared at the food on his plate: Plain cheddar and apple sandwiches. He assumed they weren't spiced: Stella Brighton and Blackwater were having them, also.

He wasn't hungry, but he'd not had anything since the departure from camp. Training and instinct prompted him to eat. Migraine, flashing spots of darkness before his eyes, warned him not to waste the food.

The painkiller tempted him. But chances were the ibuprofen she'd left on the table, same as the sedative she'd slipped him, came from an interrogator's kit. Blackwater had taken the pills, but Gunn couldn't be sure. He'd met more than one man who enjoyed this sort of trip.

Sit rep: headache, muscle strains, and nausea, from the aftershock; multiple bruises and abrasions, and, possibly, a cracked rib; pain, at the junction of his carpal bones, and pretty much everywhere. And the angle of light kept shifting around him, messing with his sense of direction.

Sit rep, again: Pain meant he would not sleep, and not sleeping meant not dreaming. He'd attacked Soren early in the morning. It was near-dark now, an early winter evening. For hours, he'd been lost in the lagoons of drugged slumber, with Matko, and the boy, and his dog, and the fighter jets cutting over the warm Adriatic sky.

On the day when they'd bombed the school, the boy had been staring up at the planes. Gunn yelled at him to take cover. And then, that bloody mutt had crossed the field, right into the middle of Marksman Lane.

He didn't reach the boy through the hell fire. The fresh, sweet scent of the pines mingled with the stench of gunpowder and death, and the hours felt more like days.

He kept trying. The ground used to be warm under his feet. Now, it was dirty, and soaked. He sauntered through mud, unable to find his way out, head spinning with the echo of shouts and shots. He wished someone else would take care of that bloody howl.

A sickening vertigo gripped him. Under the table, Gunn seized the edge of the seat, steadying himself.

He'd left the office because the door was unlocked, and the room overcrowded with ghosts. Being locked inside his head repelled him more than the anticipated instance of victor's justice. His decision made, he'd footslogged through the empty house, not caring much into what he was headed. Not caring if he stumbled, or if he'd end up crawling, by the end - until his eyes had fallen on Stella Brighton.

The sight of her had cancelled all options. He had to stand straight.

He stole a glance at her, from across the table. This woman hadn't seen a day of action in her entire life. But she'd had the presence of mind to come near, and pick up the remote that, in the rage of battle, Gunn didn't even know he'd dropped. And fry him, when he needed frying. Wasn't that something.

Soren caught the direction of his gaze. His eyes flared. Gunn turned his away. Her attention seemed focused on the food, missing the whole exchange.

Dressed in a pair of jeans and a soft, grey sweater, she no longer looked the part of the Venus in furs. The migraine aura tanned her skin, borrowing golden highlights to her hair. Maybe they'd not been wrong to send the woman after him. Gunn could be that stupid. When hurt. When confused. When lonely. Most of the time.

He pieced at the food. It was tasteless as soft mick, sawn wood on the tip of his tongue. He pushed it away after a few bites. This sandwich dinner was the weirdest he'd ever had anyway, and he'd had sandwiches before in some damn weird places. It played like a game of micro expressions, where even the passing of the salt had a double entendre. Miss on it, and he might not even hear the sound of the other shoe dropping.

Stella Brighton's perfect eyebrows drew together over the steely grey eyes.

"There's a first aid kit," she said, in the eerie tone of voice she'd used earlier in the hall. "In the bathroom. Custom Taskforce, shouldn't be all that different. If you want it."

He'd had his fair share of Taskforce first aid kits; band-aids and muscle rubs weren't likely to put him to sleep. He might as well pick up the tossed bone. Gunn nodded, not withholding his grudge.

"If you think you can't manage alone -"

He cut her off. "You offering, ma'am?"

She smiled Brighton's half smile at him. "I'm not good at it, Gunn. Soren is."

"Bedside manners are everything," Gunn said, on a whim. She didn't took it well. Her face flashed, sickly red. But she said, a little too quickly,

"Fine. I'll do it."

"Negative," he told her, mirroring her fake smile. "I'll manage."

At her side, Soren's bared his teeth. "Did someone say you were funny once, Cerna? They lied."

Steadily, Gunn met his eyes. He had enough of the bloody man calling him names. In particular, that one. It rang close to home, making him feel like too much of a fraud.

"It's not an insult, you know. If you think it's one, it's not demeaning to me."

He took Soren by surprise. "What's not an insult, smart-ass?"

"You tagging me 'Cerna'."

Soren huffed, rubbing at the back of his neck. "It's not meant as an insult."

"What's it meant like, then?"

"Like nothing." He shook his head, puzzled. "It's the army. Everything gets a nickname, for fuck's sake!"

"Really?" Gunn narrowed his eyes at him. "And what's yours, huh? Civil contractor?"

A charged moment of silence met his words. Soren looked away, pursing his lips.

"Gunn's right. You know his name, Soren," Stella Brighton intervened. "Use it."

"Sure," Soren said, grinding his teeth a little. "Wouldn't want to hurt Gunn's feelings here." The stance of his body telegraphed his meaning.

_Only the rest of him._

On each sides of her plate, Stella Brighton's hands tightened into small, elegant fists. "Do you gentlemen suppose we can all live through this day?"

Gunn stood up, slowly, cautiously, supporting himself against the edge of the table. "Yes," he told her. "Unfortunately."

Without waiting for an answer, he staggered by them, making his way to the bathroom. Gunn didn't need the lifesaver protocol to realise the situation was not life threatening. Not on the short run, at least. Just the usual crap, up a few notches.

The kit had been left on the sink. Closing the door behind, he reviewed the contents: iodine pads; iodine ointment; two I.V. plasma bags; muscle rubs; SAM splints; constricting bands; bio-sim band aids; antibiotic powder. Scissors, removed; I.V. sets, removed also. Clamps, MIA. Someone had really gone over the top with the whole 'no sharp tools for the prisoner' concept, but he couldn't really blame them.

The misery of the day spread out across his skin like the hives. Gunn removed his clothes and stepped into the shower, fighting off the urge to dig his nails in and scratch to the blood. The water was lukewarm. He pressed his shoulder into the tiled wall, leaned in his head, and let it wash over him.

 


	8. Chapter 8

WARM rain beat on his shoulders, heavy, relentless. Oil-thick brine oozed from dwarf-scale trenches his knees had shaped into the ground. Water dripped from the muzzles of the guns. The drenched fatigues clang to the bodies of the MPs like scales to a rattlesnake, making them, in their impassive, guard duty poses, into something other than human.

He didn't have to wonder what their answer might be, should he try to explain the horrendous size of the mistake here. He waited for the brass to show up. He expected to be kept waiting, while the tanks, packed with soldiers, rolled into Pojina: in terms of urban warfare priority, he didn't exactly cut top list. Military rivalry had to be factored in, also, but they were dragging it on far beyond reasonable.

He'd lost feeling in his arms, held behind his head for too long, by the time a slender figure, in camouflage raincoat, stoke a narrow opening into his field of vision. He risked a glance upwards. The raincoat was indistinct, but it'd been left open. The patch on the fatigues underneath read "Brighton."

"General," Gunn saluted, thorn between shock, relief and a lingering note of resentment. He hadn't expected Cooler himself. "Sir."

"Stand easy," Brighton said. Not to the MPs; to him. Stand easy, on his knees, with the bang-sticks pointed at his head. Gunn lowered his arms behind his back. He had a bad feeling in his gut, but the way things stood, it wasn't even about what scaled wrong in the picture. It was about what the hell about it was right.

Sharp grey eyes scanned him with clinical interest. "Quite a mess you got yourself into, son."

The feeling of wrongness logged in his chest, a non-bullet hit, but just as deep and sudden. "I had orders, sir."

Something softer, almost compassionate, flickered briefly over Brighton's features. It didn't suite him in the least, sharpening the sense of dissonance. "And that held water in front of a court martial exactly how many times? "

The answer was close to never. Desperation clawed at him. He was only obeying orders; he had to, no matter how dangerous. No matter if, along the way, the mission had turned suicidal. But it wasn't only about the orders; it was whether the brass deemed his decision to observe them the way he'd had the thing to do. He was all soaked through, but his throat was bone dry. He worked out the words.

"I want counsel. It's my right. Sir."

Water fell from the sky, oblique, sliding over Brighton's rain coat. "Has anyone warned you of your rights so far?"

A vague trace of hope. "No?"

"There's that. Cerna prisoners have no rights. Even when they surrender. " He leaned in, fully overtaking his line of sight. "Do you read me here?" Reaching out, he pulled out Gunn's dog tags from under his collar, and tugged hard at the chain, snapping his head forward. The tags fell undone to the ground. Brighton pulled a new pair from his pocket, and turned them sideways into the light.

"219667, Gunn R. Ante, private first class, Cerna National Army," he read out, in his usual voice of command. He threw the tags at the closest MP. "Process him. Retinal, prints, fact sheet, the works. And stand by for new orders."

New orders; shock made him disregard his. Gunn broke position, shoulders pushing forward, chin up in defiance. On cue, the MPs jumped him, pressing him back down. Gunn threshed about under their hands. "You can't do this. It's illegal. Don't fucking do this to me, sir!"

Cooler's flat, metallic stare shifted back to him. "Think twice about disputing it. Of course, false identity could be added to the charges. But what does it even matter, next to treason and mutiny?"

He waved at the MPs. The sting hit the back of his neck, with instantaneous effect. He went limp in the hold.

"God says goodnight, soldier," the MP laughed.

His head buzzed with supersonic noises. Brighton's command voice cut through.

"Nothing permanent. Maybe the cowboy and I will sit down for a talk sometime."

Later, in the helo, handcuffed and tagged, the damn bracelet locked around his wrist, and all lit up on cheap, army analogue apache: He'd spent the last three years thinking his life was over. He really, really had no fucking clue.

The sound of dripping water curved hallow spaces into his brain. Gunn turned it off. The Taskforce placed one between a rock and a hard place more often than not; but it provided alleviators.

He emerged half an hour later, soaked in iodine and patched up like an old pair of jeans. For all that helped; not much. But it wasn't exactly nothing, either.

One step forward, hands tracing the cracked plaster of the walls, and Gunn found himself face to face with officer Blackwater.

"Forgot these," he said, and flung the cigarette pack at him. Gunn missed. Stiffly, he picked it up from the floor. He'd never been alone with a man he'd shot in cold blood before. If intent amounted to action, Blackwater would be dead. It still felt a little like talking to a ghost. But it wasn't all that spectacular; mostly numb.

"Lighter?" Just in case he decided to set fire to the place, or something.

"Inside. Don't smoke in the house again." Soren's expression was black and blue, and otherwise unreadable. "So, then. How do you call me in your head? You know, when ya'll gather in there and parley?"

The damn man had a point. It didn't make Gunn want to strangle him any less.

"Blackwater."

"Doesn't get old, does it? My actual call sign was Saber. Sergeant, the MPs. Before I went private. You?"

"I never had a call sign," Gunn said, without blinking.

Soren's eyebrows drew together, over his dark eyes and all the bruising. "How come? I sure can think of several."

He shrugged. Soren ran his fingers through his hair. "Look, Cerna. There's the blasted ocean."

He pointed with his chin at the window. "The Taskforce's twenty minutes away, on the other side. That rover doesn't float. So, tell me: where in the hell where you headed?"

Gunn scoffed, looking away from him. No way out, no direction. Nothing new.

"You were set to blow my brains off over zero. Nada. Zippo, you whacko," Soren went on, in a no-nonsense tone of voice. "Am I wrong?"

"I did get a kick out of it," Gunn told him, with complete honesty.

Soren laughed. It came across almost friendly, except for the part of it that was anything but.

"I didn't snap your neck this time around. Embrace the shit approach, and everything. But you're really pushing it."

Gunn tilted his head, pretending to study him. "Good cop, bad cop, good, bad again. Do you get confused, Soren? You did take a blow to the head."

"No. I know I'm not the good cop, and never was. Either way, that bracelet's coming off."

The anger Gunn had been holding back all evening flooded him in one go. "Stop fucking around, Soren, it's annoying."

"Down, boy," Soren scoffed. "I'll remove it, in the morning. The controls should do the trick, but I want to take a look first, just to stay on the safe side."

He couldn't wrap his mind around all this. "You're setting me up. Why would you do it, after everything?"

"T's crazy, I know. But hey, I'm just the hired help," he said, with a small jerk of his head. "Not really my circus."

"That's a lie, and you know it."

"Yeah," Soren said, not in the least disturbed. "And this is a fucking icebreaker."

He left Gunn in the middle of the corridor, perplexed. For some reason, he couldn't get it out of his head, the casual compassion on Cooler Brighton's face, just as he was burying him under. And then it dawned on him that it wasn't about him or anything he'd done.

Stella Brighton had a plan, and, with minor adjustments, she was sticking to it. A plan that involved not breaking every single bone in his body after he'd attempted murder on them, but feeding, medicating and, apparently, unfettering him.

He clutched the cigarette pack in his hand. Matko had been the same, reasonable, patient and quietly supportive. It had taken prolonged armed combat for Gunn to realize he was not his friend, but his handler. Not being quite the cocky, restless rookie he'd once been, he was now starting to suspect he might be better of in handcuffs.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hey, guys! I want to thank everyone who took the time to read. Assuming anyone did, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Does it float, or sink? Thank you, P.**

 

  
THE bar was all swag lights, and smoke, bright metal fixtures, and doors slamming open and shut. Old, corny rock music played - about miracles that never happened in a place like this: A place that currently erupted with the shouts and laughter of the Cerna army men. Gunn cut his way through the crowd, feeling, in his shinny, new uniform, once more the stranger. He'll go home, soon. The assignment was over, the job done; but he couldn't simply get on a plane. He was still standing by, for the orders to work their way through the Taskforce bureaucracy.

From where he was seated by the bar, with a line of shot glasses, Matko called at him.

"Skylight, hey, SL! Over here!"

He changed course, scanning the crowd, craving a drink or several. He spotted Mara by the wall of mirrors. Her partner, Stephan or Ratko, or something he couldn't remember, was seated next to her, arm wrapped possessively around her shoulders. Gunn stared, unabashed, caught her eye and tilted his head. She stared back, straight at him, like she'd seen him for the first time, and then smiled at something the man next to her said.

Matko frowned at him.

"One of these days, someone's gonna break your legs."

He kept watching her pillow lips and eyes, deep and dark and slanted under the curtain of velvety brown locks. He recalled the sunset, wrapped around her necked body like a faded red dress, and grinned.

"I'll be worth it."

"Hmm." Matko clicked his tongue, an annoying local habit. "With Mara, it's all about timing. Wait long enough, and you'll get your turn to be chowed over and spat out, just like everybody else. That girl has no mercy. Hey, it's the roulette," he said, waving at the shots. "You in?"

The welcome from the other Cerna soldiers wasn't quite as warm. The mission was classified, and the alliance, frail, reluctant. But they made room for him at their table. It didn't take Gunn long to realise he was dealing with high rollers that kept the bottles coming. The rakija warmed him up, its buzz a pleasant distraction. He kept at it, joining in the jokes and the laughter. Maybe later into the night, or early in the morning, when they'd be all too tired and bokoo soused, he might even catch a dance with Mara.

He never got around to it. The music ceased, right in the middle of the miracle that wasn't to happen. The screens flared breaking-news yellow, and the simultaneous vibration of countless phones shook the room. The headline ran in a loop, black, ominous letters on the mirror wall: the Collective Defence Organisation had invaded the Streep, and was now crossing into Cerna.

Another night – his second in this place, spent chain-smoking Soren's cigarettes. No dreams, this time around. Only memories.

Mara looked up at him, pushing sweaty tangles away from her face, and damn if the mood wasn't ruined. That lazy, languid after sex mood, where he just breathed out, his bones sort of melting with his thoughts, 'till there were no bones and no thoughts, only an emptiness, the good kind, soaking him up. Like walking on soft embers, after having walked on burning charcoals for a while, and the skin on the soles of his feet tingled, assuming there was any skin left at all. Right now, he couldn't be sure whether there was, or there wasn't. Couldn't care less. Whatever, until his peace was suddenly gone, the very instant she lifted her head.

"Rehak says it's the CDO. But my people say it's the Taskforce. Your damn satellites, dropping wolfram on the Vetogradin wind power fields that started it."

He'd heard the rumours. Kinetic orbital strike, orchestrated by anyone but Cerna. They were wrong to think it was the Western Coalition. It made no sense: Cerna was white-listed, a WCS cooperating client. "It was not the Taskforce."

"Of course you'd say that." She scowled, disgusted. "You're with them."

"I'm not playing in the band, Mara. I'm just crew," he said, reaching out for one of her cigarettes. "And I'm with you. For all that's worth."

"You come at a price, Skylight." Mara fumbled with her discarded clothes, a tightness to her lips that had felt so soft and warm under his. She was leaving, but then, they both were: Him, back to camp. Her, back to wherever she went, always surrounded by Cerna soldiers. She buttoned up her shirt.

"I can't do this anymore. Don't look for me. In fact, don't look at me at all. I don't even know who the hell you are."

"Hey," Soren called out to him, from across the room. "You look like shit, Cerna. Still adverse to ibuprofen?"

He played the lighter on his fingers. "Allergic to bullshit."

"Cut it out, then." Soren sliced another roll of bread in half, layered both halves with ham and spread mustard on top. He gave his handiwork a long, approving look. "Breakfast's ready."

Gunn's stomach turned. "I'll pass."

"It's this, or flying light," Soren said, looking at him from under bent eyebrows. "But hey, the cook position is open. Feel free to apply any damn time."

"Pass me the knife," Gunn said, to the man who'd taken out the scissors from a first aid kit. "I'll try my hand."

Soren's face blackened. "Right."

"See," Gunn told him. "It's starting to itch."

He turned his back to the man, and sat at the table, telling himself that he was sick and tired of these games. But really, it was about the bracelet.

Soren ate, neatly, efficiently. Gunn stood there, brooding, until Stella Brighton entered the kitchen. She'd tied her hair up, into a bun of soft curls. He noticed, telling himself he looked at her merely because she was there, and easy to look at.

"Morning," she said, frowning at the plate of sandwiches. "Is there any coffee?"

"On the stove." Soren nodded in the right direction. "I guess kiss the cook is out of the question, and rather the general feeling."

"There's an ocean, Soren," she said, pouring herself a cup. "Last time I checked. There's bound to be something better around."

"Sure, there's fish," Gunn said. All day, every day, at the camp. He stood up, pacing around the room, restless all of the sudden, despite the lingering numbness in his body. Besides, size was his only advantage, and right now, he was seated, and she was standing up. "And a place in the village. Or so I hear."

"We should go eat out," she said. As simple as that.

Soren dropped the half-eaten sandwich on the plate. "Please tell me crazy isn't catchy, miss. I'm starting to wonder."

"Why, Soren? We'll buy food." She gave a nonchalant shrug. "Besides, there's other things Gunn needs. Clothes. Maybe a haircut."

He was with Soren on this one. "I might have left my credit card back at the mansion."

"Look," Soren said, just short of losing his temper. "At him. He's worked all over. So am I. Do you really think we ought to go public?"

She gave them both a long, analytical look. "You're the problem, Soren. Gunn can be... explained away."

Yes; she had the explanation ready, for sure, and no concern for his feelings this time around. This wasn't a spur of the moment thing. She'd thought it over.

Stella Brighton turned to him. "We'll take the car. You drive." It hadn't even occurred to her to ask if he was up for it.

Anger burnt into him like acid. He'd been restrained the last time they'd been alone. She'd want a deterrent now. No way the bracelet was coming off. He'd revealed his weakness, and had been set up. Carrot and stick.

"I'm not doing it."

Grey eyes found his, sober and steady. "Yes, you are."

"Why should I?"

 _Because_ _you want the bracelet removed._

"Because I take your file at face value. According to it, you do what work needs to be done, and right now that's driving and supply. And why wouldn't you, Gunn, when it's your ticket home, eventually? Every infraction that goes on record adds an extension, you know." Her tone was patient, contained, like she was addressing a stubborn child. "Unless there's something I'm not aware of, and that you want to tell me."

He stared her down. She stared right up at him. He'd faced field action less dangerous than her gaze. "When do we leave?"

"How much time do you need to take care of the bracelet, Soren?" But she didn't take her eyes from his.

The man came around the table. "Best start now, and we'll see."

"I'll get you both some coffee."

"Sit down," Soren said to him. "At the table. I'll be right back."

He stormed out of the kitchen. Gunn hated how the table was set in the middle of the room, surrounded by plain air, leaving his back exposed no matter which place he took. But he sat, shoulders stiff, still not able to believe it was happening. He'd been drugged when the bracelet was placed on. He felt dizzy now, a grinding sound in his ears, an electric surcharge running all over his skin. He jolted his head, trying to release the tension. Tendon slid over tendon, with a rice crispy noise. He brought up his hand, rubbing blindly at the back of his neck. It felt like pieces of gravel in there, like he was being strangled with wires he could not see.

Stella Brighton walked behind him, and brushed his hand aside. He shied away from her touch, his resentment raw on his face.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing," she said. "You're making it worse. Lean your head to the front. That's right, chin to chest. Go slow. Do it again." Leaning over his shoulder, she placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. "I need to know you won't put us in a ditch, Gunn. I'll drive us, if you're not coordinated enough."

His lips drew away from his teeth. "I'll drive," he told her, purely out of spite. Never mind that he could damn see the strings attached. Never mind that, as the wise men put it, anger was a sign of weakness. Never mind he was already in the dead man's seat, next to Stella Brighton. He was not about to let her drive him around in the non-metaphorical sense.

Soren returned with a small, military-issued holder, the kind soldiers used for personal effects. Sitting in front of Gunn, he magicked a slick, black box, and what looked like a pocket tool roll holder.

"What's that?"

"This," Soren said, with a smug look of satisfaction, "is the Valhalla. It's a sniffer. I want to troubleshoot that thing, just to make sure."

An analyser. A hacking tool; back in the barracks, Soren said he had the codes to the bracelet. But probably only to use it. Brighton would not disclose the removal codes.

"Waiting for a letter of invitation, Cerna? Lay your arm down already."

His suspicion was intense, irrational, the taste of anger and betrayal sour on his tongue. This was just a shot in the dark. He would not go through it.

"Forget it. I've grown fond of it."

Soren straightened up, sought his eyes with his dark gaze. "Hey," he said. "Look, I know what I'm doing. You can - "

"Don't say it," Gunn cut him off. "Don't you fucking dare say it to me."

With an exasperated sucking noise, Soren leaned back in his chair. "How the hell am I supposed to do it, then?"

"Are you sure, Soren?" Stella Brighton asked.

"Trust me, miss. I'll keep it quick, and painless."

"I hope you don't say that to all the girls." Irony spiced her voice. But there was something to her gaze, like mist on steel, as it landed on him.

Blood surged to Gunn's face. He was being more than a little the fool. Paranoia or not, he only risked a sting; a far cry from his first dance, just like Soren had said. He understood what the Valhalla was supposed to accomplish. If it couldn't crack the thing, then it wouldn't crack it. If it shocked him, he'd live. Simple as mick.

He rolled out his sleeve, and extended his arm across the table, bracelet and scars on full display. It was just skin, after all. Broken tissue, growing numb as he stared at it. He'd seen worse. "I'll break every damn bone in your body," he told Soren.

"Yeah," the other replied. "No pressure."

Silence blanketed them, broken only by the low, synthetic droning of the Valhalla. Minuscule lights flickered on the small screen. Symbols rolled down. Soren extracted a digital pen from the roll holder, and brushed it over the device, a deep frown between his eyebrows. It was out of his hands.

He zoomed out, to white light, and manageable vertigo. The background humming noise of the machines had throbbed deep into his bones as they went full stop. The chair vibrated, sliding out of the hollow cylinder. The computer fed him information in the low, male ham radio voice some shrink had decided was more pleasant to listen on the long run. He climbed out the airlock, working the hoops and loops of the suit, his feet a little unsteady with effort and the shift in the pull force. And he thought, this was the life; that this here was it.

"Well done, SL."

He flashed a broad smile at the woman in the white coat. She was beautiful, relaxed, and she outranked him. But not everyone got to put a satellite on orbit, and he was already sanctioned, this was just more sim-training. He was about to ask when she got off work, when she jumped to attention, looking blankly in front of her.

"Sir."

"I need the room, Major," said the tall man in the Air Force flight suit.

He waited, all braced up, under the weight of the familiar eyes on him. Perhaps more wrinkled at the corners; and the blond hair, spiked with more grey than he remembered; but the same old bastard, all in all.

"I don't want you doing this. It's monumentally stupid. Step back. It's not too late."

The first thing he said to him. Months of tests and training, not one fucking phone call, not once, and now, this. He stared him back, with casual indifference.

"May I make a statement, Colonel? I don't give a dead rat's ass what you want, sir."

Holding the digital pen between his teeth, Soren inserted the card in the Valhalla's slot, and punched the digits in the remote.

"I can't override it," he said. "Permission denied."

He dropped the remote on top of the table. Gunn stared down at it, at the plexiglass mirror-case of the device that had nearly ended his days twice now, at the bracelet still around his wrist. The Valhalla's lights had all died out. The screen only displayed strange diagrams, interweaving, flickering lines that didn't look like anything.

Snap. Beat. Tick.

"Gotcha," Soren said, with a shit eating grin.

The digital lock slid out of position. The bracelet fell, on the table top. Light and sound faded. He stared down at his arm, with only the scars left on display. His fingers had gone numb.

His brain was catching on, slowly. MP. Private contractor. Hacker. Close combat strategist. Cooler Brighton, surrounded by MPs, wherever he went, his close protection team. Not a good cop, never was. Maybe not the bad cop, either. The MPs counted more than one agency: Criminal, Civilian Affairs, Police Intelligence. Oxymoronic as it sounded, it still made more sense than officer Blackwater investigating the ranks. Gunn wanted to kick himself. He'd thought so far that Stella Brighton was running this show. Maybe she thought the same.

"Son of a bitch," he said aloud. Soren could read it any way he damn pleased.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

SILHOUETTES of old buildings pierced the mists of the Atlantic winter. Gunn hit the breaks in front of the ancient city hall. Sand and rocks grind under the wheels like broken bones, in the agonising cries of the seagulls.

He'd been driving in high gear, shoulders frozen with tension, eyes on the foggy road, and resentment pouring from him in waves. The car kept veering, shaking and vibrating like a defective space module with only two life forms at board, one of which was alien and hostile.

Stella was taking a lot of risks with this trip, and another outburst of violence didn't even count as the most immediate. She was more concerned about loss of focus. Like this morning, when Soren worked on the bracelet, and Gunn had shut down so completely it was hard to tell if he was even there at all. But, despite the aggressive driving, he'd stayed in control of the vehicle.

Small goals; the two words were, currently, her mantra.

Battling motion sickness, Stella retrieved her backpack, and took out a blue credit card. She placed it quietly on the console. For the first time since they'd boarded the car, Gunn turned his attention to her, a look of interrogation in his eyes.

"Buy what you need. I'll take the car, and shop for supplies. There aren't that many stores, from what I could see. Let's take an hour or so, and meet back here."

He clenched his fists around the wheel, unclenched them, and then clenched them again. "You're giving me your credit card?"

"Soren's. He's the one who left all your stuff at the camp." She flashed an innocent smile in his direction. "Food of choice?"

"Edible." A small moment of hesitation on his part, and a grimace, like speaking caused him physical pain. "Oranges."

She nodded her understanding, holding out her hand for him to pass the card-key. He dropped it in her open palm, and stepped out of the car, holding his hands to the sides, unsure what to do about them. Deftly,

Stella slid between the chair and the gear station, and took the wheel.

Alone in the car, she felt a weight lift off her shoulders. She left him standing on the side of the road, an even deeper frown between his eyebrows.

Shopping was a boring affair. There weren't all that many choices to begin with at the dusty general store. Fish, more fish, bread, cheese, butter, eggs. Apples, and no oranges. Cheap brandy, which was still better than none. And, finally, a ray of sunshine: honey. And instant coffee, a lifesaver, that one.

She took her time with the supplies, and after that, drove aimlessly around the city. The car lurched along the small swamp passing for a main street. She spotted the small bistro, somewhere to the right. People in ugly raincoats went about their business, in the ramshackle shops.

Rusting fishing ships rocked with the turning tide, like drunken priestess of doom. A road sign in a dated font listed the city's French name as "Haut-sur-Mer". It rang closer to "Haut-sur-Hell" in her mind. Eventually, she decided she'd given Gunn enough time.

He was not at the meeting point. Just as Stella began wondering whether she should worry, the light utility vehicle bypassed her at high speed, with the red lights on. The MPs. The city was duller than a symposium on the latest developments in the field of two level maintenance. Hence, she had a 'seek no longer' type of events on her hands.

She'd meant for Gunn to see the forces deployed in the village. She'd not meant close contact, but close contact was exactly what she had to deal with now.

Resigned, she followed them to what must have been the most broken-down police station this side of the Atlantic. She'd fallen behind a little, because she'd decided to observe the speed limit. The car she'd spotted earlier, splashed all over with mud, was already parked in the small yard.

Next to it was a brand new helo, with the MP logo, 'Swift and Secure', and the designation "HWTR 1" written across in shiny red letters. In this god forsaken place, with the Taskforce on both sides of the pond and nothing in sight for miles. Where even drones were redundant. The army did love its acronyms; and sometimes, it was bright like that about its investments.

Not in the least surprising, he found Gunn inside, handcuffed to a table in the grunge main hall. An armed MP was standing guard. Another went through a nondescript canvas bag. A third was laying down a fingerprint set on the table. Old style policing; in a place like this, retinal scans were probably too expensive.

"Let's not make this difficult," one of the MPs said.

"No, not at all," Gunn replied, in passable French and a surprisingly calm manner. He had the good sense to cooperate with them, which explained why he was in no worse shape than the one she'd left him in. On second look, she'd noticed how he'd gotten himself a classic, short military haircut. So maybe in worse shape, after all. It was really a close call.

"Officer," Stella said, in her best highfalutin, private club member manner. "Maybe I can be of assistance."

A flash of her ID got her a swift invitation into the Commissioner's office, grim and dusty like the rest of the place, and clouded in thick tobacco smoke. Stella was good at playing the general's daughter – she was one, after all. By the end, the Commissioner, an older, heavy man that seemed to have spent most of his active duty standing by to stand by, was more than happy to be of service.

"Routine check," he told her. "We were informed of a stranger in town, showing signs of violence. And the credit card data did not match."

"He was running chores for us. I don't live alone, Commissioner. And it's my credit card. I have a services wall, just like everyone else. And I get real time notification of how and where it's used." Real time notifications about everything the government considered she deserved to learn, at least.

"But, miss, about the ..." The Commissioner gestured at his own face, with a doubtful look. "What happened?"

"Safety training accident," she said, with casual indifference. He was an alien, with no civil rights. It was known to happen.

By the time she said her goodbyes, the Commissioner was already on the phone with his men.

Gunn was where she'd left him in, engaged in an intense study of the cracked, tiled floor. His hands were free. He saw her, and wasn't more the happy for it.

"Darling," Stella said, coming to a halt in front of him. "What have you done to your hair?"

He met her eyes, with the same eerie calm that had marked his earlier interaction with the MPs. "Did you arrange I get picked up?"

What do you know; a perfectly stupid question! Was it an only child, or did it have more perfectly stupid siblings, getting ready to come out and play? Stella stifled a sigh of exasperation.

"I saw the patrol car and followed it, that's all. Oh, wait. I also kept the speed limit, like the good citizen that I am, so it took a bit longer. But your trust in me is flattering."

"No, I'm sure it's well deserved. Take the chip and the old block part. And everything else."

His eyes were sunken deep, barely bearing the weight of the eyelids. She understood now. That stone calmness was only exhaustion. He was simply saving the energy. Two days without a decent meal, and at least one sleepless night that she was aware of. Add to that stress, battery, and assault with a deadly weapon. She was aware of soldiers going on for days on adrenaline alone, whether naturally produced, or not. But it could only last for so long.

"That must be the weirdest thank you I ever heard," she told him. "Let's get out of here."

Outside, the mist was raising in the face of a force six gale. Rain had started, small, frozen drops falling thickly, in endless reruns. She drove them to the bistro, surprised but relieved to see him get with the program.

It was hardly her type of place, the air heavy with the scent of cheap coffee, cheap alcohol, and cheaper sea food. But it was conveniently dark and empty. Handwritten on a black board, the plate of the day was salmon and carrots. She settled in her chair and pointed at the board with her chin.

"Edible?"

He kept looking around the bistro, for something to do other than talk to her.

"Uh-huh."

She studied his profile from the corner of her eye. The bruises on his face were disturbing; but, despite her better judgment, the blue eyes and the high cheekbones, the lines and shapes of his body, long and sharp and taut, made for an agreeable sight.

"I hate this winter sea weather. Was it the same in Cerna?"

"No."

"How was it?"

His gaze settled on the window, on the solid blocks of rain and mist outside.

"Deadly."

Stella bit into her lips. "Your small talk skills suck big time."

"Look, I realise the point of this exercise," he said, still refusing to look at her face. "Soren made it perfectly clear. I get it. There's nowhere to run."

"That's Soren's opinion. You tried to run twice. What's yours?"

"Are you asking if I'll try again? I didn't exactly have the place mapped when I tried before. There's nothing out here that won't lead straight into the hands of the Taskforce."

Stella performed a mental review of the parameters of the mission. Travel to location; retrieve asset. Confirm recovery over a secured connection, to a pre-assigned email address. Obtain target cooperation. Stand by for instructions. She'd only managed the first two, with Soren working on the third.

With nowhere to run, she suspected the expected instructions would not read escape from Highwater. The best she could hope for was that the General had arranged for their safe passage. She didn't care to consider the worst. She'd wait: Stand by to stand by, the default mode of this god forsaken place.

Just because she didn't care to consider the worst, it didn't mean she wasn't, though.

"But what if it was a matter of when, and you were only looking to buy time?"

He tilted his head, finally giving her a sideway glance. "Are you prompting me to try?"

"Professional blind spot," she said. "I just like to have all the facts."

He finally met her eyes. There was something deeply uncomfortable about the shift of his attention to her. "Let me guess. You've always wanted to be an analyst. Little girls played with dolls. You played with data."

She gave him a small, wry smile. "I played with my father's close protection team. He got me the job. When he died, they put me on leave. Do the maths. But I did the work, Gunn. I never settled for what my father handed to me."

"Like privilege?"

She ignored the irony. "Like your backstory. My father never believed in 'private custodial arrangements'," she said, drawing sarcastic, virtual quotes with her fingers. "And if one day, completely out of the blue, he made one, he would've probably noticed if something about it was amiss. Like, say, the person in custody. Sent 'by mistake' to the glasshouse. The WEP paradigm on all this reads remote."

He watched her now, very closely. "I have no idea what a WEP paradigm means."

Poor sarcasm will be the death of him; or a bullet; or a knife in the back. Thinking better of it, the options here were unlimited. "There's the reality of the file, and right now we go with it. But let's not pretend that's all there is."

"To any of us," he said, very quietly, something dangerous about the set of his mouth. "I've been ...paradigming, too. You take me out, buy me things, dine me. The screwing part follows in logical succession."

"It's just what it is." Shifting in place, Stella lay her open palms on the table. "We needed stuff. And we have to eat sometime. Not everything

has to be one massive conspiracy."

The line of his shoulders screamed doubt. "In the interest of full disclosure, the jury is still out on that one."

The food finally arrived. She finally saw him eat. He still appeared very much dead on his feet. Conversation remained on life support, with the prospects sombre. Once done, Stella picked up the check. From the canvas bag, Gunn pulled out a grey, plain maritime, coat, and put it on.

They walked outside.

Travelling with the General from station to station throughout her childhood, Stella had witnessed the soldiers, before being dispatched to a real wartime action. The young, inexperienced ones were excited. The veterans prayed, or called home. The occasional man, aware of what was coming, puked his guts out. But mostly, they sat around, staring into nothing, or chain-smoking illegal cigarettes. As she was about to share the confined space of the car with him, she was starting to really get where they were coming from.

Gunn walked straight to the driver's door. The gale smeared rainwater, drab and sluggish like depression, on the plastic fabric of his coat.

"Key?"

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Stella said, handing it to him. "No offence, Gunn, but you drive kind of like you fight. And there's this weather."

"It's an army car," he said. "It's meant to be pushed a little. And I can drive pretty much anything, with my eyes closed and a hand tied behind my back."

He got into the driver's seat, and kick-started the engine. Left to ride shotgun, Stella buckled up. He noticed, and snickered.

"When I first took out a car, I drove so fast bump sparks were flying from under the wheels," he said, backing out of the parking lot. "I was twelve."

The dark and the hood concealed his face. "I can see that ending well."

"Uh-huh. Drove it around the block a few times, and slammed it straight into the main power pole down our street. The airbag literally burnt the logo into my hand. The upside, I made the whole neighborhood sparkle. The blackout was the downside."

"Your father must have been thrilled."

He shook his head, briefly, eyes on the road. "It was my brother's car. He'd taught me how to drive it. They sent the bill to him."

Stella settled better in the uncomfortable chair. This was the first time he revealed something about himself. And it was entirely irrelevant.

"So, your small talk skills don't suck, after all."

"It's not small talk," he said. "I was making a point."

"Really?" Stella tilted her head, looking sideways at him. "I missed it."

"It wasn't reckless driving. I meant to bump it."

They were just about to exit the village. He veered the car around a hole in the road, sending them both back and forward like puppets. Another bump in the road, another twist and turn of the wheel, and once more, the sense of wrongness she'd first experienced on their first dinner together tumbled over her.

"And they say passive-aggressive doesn't have its perks."

"I wouldn't know," he said. "It ranks flat out aggressive in my book."

"There is a self-destructive streak to you, surely you realise."

"Is it?" She couldn't see him, but it was just as well. She didn't have any trouble picturing his mouth twist.

"You don't eat," she counted. "You don't sleep. You smoke. You drive like a madman, and generally disregard the potential self-harm in your selected course of action. It's text book."

"Or it's just plain old idiot brain. I'm not all that complicated, ma'am. You can stop profiling me."

"Cut the 'ma'am' shite already, Gunn," she said, fed up with the constant, oblique aggression. "I'm not your CO. But if I were, you'd be scrubbing a lot of latrines."

He laughed. "Fine. You did dine me, and bought me stuff, after all. We'll call it even."

A twenty-minute drive, in silence; about the time it took to wipe a medium-size city off the face of the earth, with conventional weapons.


	11. Chapter 11

 

  
He pulled the car in front of the door, and turned to her.

"You go ahead. I'll carry in the groceries."

Surprising; but heavy downpour wasn't exactly the time to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth.

"They were out of oranges, by the way," she told him. "I got you lemons."

Inside, it was almost warm. Steaming TV buzzed in the background, and the yellow glow of dated hanging light bulbs softened the gloom of the place. Stella wanted nothing but to cuddle on the sofa, with a blanket and a taste of that brandy. And not think about today; not think about anything for a while.

She threw her coat on the nearest chair and made her way into the living room.

"You wouldn't believe the day I had."

From where he was seated on the sofa, with the Touchscreen and the Valhalla, Soren turned his head and grinned at her widely.

"Day's still young, miss. I found a reliable connection."

"That's ... wow!" Stella flung herself down on the couch, and put her feet on top of the table. "Ten-strike, Soren!" But her initial enthusiasm burnt fast. "Wait. Western?"

"Even better," Soren said. "British."

"Long live the King!" A pirate network was one thing. She could deal with the fine. A hostile pirate network amounted to a possible charge of treason. Among the Western powers, the Kingdom of Britain and Wales tended to turn a blind eye to unsanctioned communications. "But really? At this distance?"

"Apparently, miss." Soren said. He drew his eyebrows together, confused. "Do you really want the technical details?"

"Not the tech lingo. Just tell me we can make contact."

"The deep web basically means a bunch of computers, linked together into private networks, miss. It's like a door, and only those with a key can get through and connect. We already have our key. I guess we'll have to put it in the lock, and see if it turns."

"Good. Let's. I want to get out of here already. This place adds a whole new dimension to the notion of depression. Not that I needed it, thank you very much."

"Yeah, well, about that. Sometimes, miss, better the devil you know."

She nodded in agreement. Their instructions only required them to confirm asset recovery. They had no idea what the reply might be. But right now she felt strangely energetic.

"I had a conversation with Gunn earlier, in the village. Of sorts. Wonder of wonders, he agrees with you. He can't think of a way out of Highwater, either. The General was thorough. So maybe the nice Commissioner I met today – and wait 'till you hear that story –receives an email, with three official movement licenses attached, and we get a free pass. Where to, it's another story."

"I hate to rain on your parade here, but in my experience, when it comes to assignments, there's no such thing as a free pass."

"It's my father, giving me an assignment, Soren. He wouldn't even let me dust his touchscreen for him." If she was into dusting; which had never been the case. The time Stella had remotely approached the topic, she'd received the famous stern, Cooler Brighton look.

"Be reasonable, love. In our lives and times, family is a drawback." She'd never asked to do any assessments for him again. She'd simply kept out of the General's way.

"After this, anything is possible. Even a ridiculous pair of X-ray sunglasses."

Stella put her hands behind her back, and stretched to release tension, with the casual indifference of a house cat. She watched Soren button the Touchscreen. It was hard time for some bloody good news. And even if this mission was more about deception than genuine action, and she'd been provided with more props than the norm, she intended to carry it through.

"Gunn remains a vulnerable spot," she resumed. "Today, in the village, he managed to get himself arrested. Factually, I broke him out of jail."

Soren's brows drew up. "What?"

"I didn't get arrested. Just taken in for questioning," Gunn said, as he walked in. His eyes swept the room, and settled on her, with an expectant look. He'd taken off the rain coat, and put on a new airborne sweater, not really army, but army-like enough. He held the bottle of local brandy she'd bought earlier in his hand.

"I suppose, strictly speaking," Stella said, tongue-in-cheek. It didn't suffice she was basically trapped in this house with two A-type go-getters, always at each other's throats. They moved around by stealth, also. "But sorry; was it something you wanted?"

He held up the bottle. "I put away the groceries. I couldn't figure out where the booze is supposed to go."

She saw right through him, standing there, with the bottle, and the suddenly accommodating act. He couldn't bring himself to ask, same as he couldn't bring himself to thank her. He'd decided to earn it, which was, in fact, spectacular. And entertaining, in a twisted way that was probably a side effect of this assignment. At least, she wasn't making a mess of it. She'd handled things, so far. With Marcus, and today, with the MPs, she'd pulled it off with flying colours. And the bodycount remained at zero. She must be doing something right.

"But you did, Gunn." She was still amused. "It goes right here."

"Do you want glasses?" Accommodating didn't quite tone with his flat voice. Her alarm bells went off. Something here was awry. She just couldn't put her finger on it.

"Sure." She didn't even know they had glasses. "Sounds good."

With a terse shake of his head, he turned on his heels.

"None for me," Soren said, switching from the device to the Valhalla in his lap. "I've got work to do. We need to be more careful with him around. Miss Brighton," he stressed, keeping his eyes on the touchscreen. "If I manage it, we must call in."

"Yes," Stella said, without hesitation. He had to call, of course, and confirm the benchmark; inform command, whomever they were, that Gunn had been secured. "There's no alternative that I'm aware of." She leaned over the edge of the couch, and called towards the kitchen. "Just two glasses, Gunn."

"Right," he called back. His voice was clipped.

Soren lifted his eyes from the screen. "What's up with him?"

Her bad feeling lingered; same as, after a last-minute change to long-term, carefully designed plans, the premonition of a major washout settles deep in the bones. She gathered herself up the couch, and seized the bottle of brandy.

"Stay here, Soren."

In the kitchen, she stumbled upon a jaw-dropping scene: By the sink, Gunn carried out a perfunctory glasswork drying operation. A thin sheet of water coated the snifters. The patches he wore on his hands were soaked. Stella put the bottle on the table, and took in the tight, twisted lines of his back. Optimism and her, they'd shared a moment; it was done now, all over with, a summer fling.

"You're awfully nice," she said, feeding him a taste of his own medicine.

"Not really."

"Oh-kay; baffling, then?"

"I had my fair share of kitchen police." He turned towards her, poker-faced. "I can do the dishes. I don't cook. I do peal. You already saw how I drive. And you're right, I did clean a lot of latrines."

  
"You also hate laundry day. I remember. What is this, Gunn? Housemaid interview?"

"I've already got the job," he said, with a terse shake of his head. "It's more like defining the KPIs. Just in case you decide to take my contract at face value again." The poor impression of a smile stretched his lips. "Your glasses are ready."

"Our glasses. Soren doesn't want any." She worked around the dryness in her mouth, studying him: the high cheekbones, the bruises on his face, the straight eyebrows drawn over the northern tint of his irises. And the anger, all coiled up and ready to bite, inside the pretty, if damaged, outside packaging. "I'm no longer sure alcohol's a good idea."

"It's always a good idea," he said. "I'm willing to risk Stockholm syndrome, if you are."

Another one of his backhanded strikes, how wonderful! Stella hesitated. The potential for aggression aside, his physical state worried her, also. Bruises, abrasions, shock, drugs, cigarettes, hardly any food or sleep, and now, alcohol? The last thing she needed was another health hazard on her hands. In the thrill of the moment earlier, she hadn't thought this through.

"It's technically Lima syndrome, as far as I'm concerned," she replied, seeking to buy time, but, also, because he'd been so keen on terminology earlier. "Statistically, the chances to develop either are very slim, under 10%. In this specific situation, as close to zero as possible, in my opinion. I made a mistake, Gunn, I'm sorry. You really shouldn't drink."

His already tense shoulders froze. "I've forgotten. You get to decide how my needs are met."

"Look, Gunn, you're already... up and down," Stella said, biting into her lips. It hadn't crossed her mind how much like the contract that came across. "It's understandable. A lot has happened these days. You've been under a lot of stress. Pick-me-ups are the last thing you need."

"Brighton," he said, and the sudden surge of hostility in his voice iced up her skin. "Cut the patronising shit."

"Please, don't ambush me, Gunn." She poured calm she didn't feel in her words. He'd addressed her by name for once, but it had taken Stella a moment to realise he'd meant her, not the General. "It's uncalled for. You can't deny that your behaviour is more than a little inconsistent."

"My behaviour?" He let out a dark, disbelieving laughter. "In case it escaped your notice, we're at war. War means they send in soldiers, with orders to fight, hurt and kill each other. And if they happen to get captured, they're supposed to fight, hurt, and kill the captors, also. Or at least try. Tell me, what exactly is so bloody inconsistent about my behaviour?"

He didn't raise his voice through it; in hindsight, the fight with Soren had been the only time she'd heard him shout. Still, fear crawled, snake-like, across her stomach. Soren was right; he was twice her size. And she'd witnessed first-hand his potential for destruction: not because he had a particular scope in mind, a genuine intent to escape. But because they, Soren and her, were the enemies. Just for the damn sake of it.

"But we're not at war here, Gunn."

He gave her another one of his long, cryogenic glances. "Everyone is at war, everywhere. At every given moment up there, thousands of satellites stand by to drop tones of wolfram and phosphorus on virtually any place on this earth, at a push of a goddamn button."

Her breath caught. Satellites dropping wolfram, what had gone down in Cerna; and exactly what Cerna had always denied. A Freudian slip on his part? The question formed in the back of her mind; but he didn't give her the opportunity to fully grasp the implications.

"If consistency is an issue, let's take a look at things from my perspective. I'm this ... up and down hostile alien resident, who assaulted your man, Soren, with a gun. You galvanise the breath out of me, which makes sense, at least. Then you let me roam freely around the house, while Soren contrabands me cigarettes, and the two of you eagerly remove your only safety net.

"Next, you jump head first into a car that I drive - inadequately, by your standards. But that doesn't deter you from taking me out for lunch, and on a shopping spree, after you make it very clear that I'm in no position to refuse either. I call that more than a little erratic."

He locked his arms across his chest, exhaled deeply, and jutted out his chin. "Just what the hell is the end game here, Brighton? You either want something from me, and you're desperate to see what works, or you're on a goddamn power binge, and you enjoy messing with my head. Or both."

She stared at him, eyes wide and breath shallow. God, she was making a mess of this mission! Presented this way, the facts painted a startling picture; even more shocking, because it wasn't entirely untrue. Faced with her conscience, Stella wanted nothing but to trust him. But, in point of fact, he remained indisputably untrustworthy.

"It's called power structure, Gunn. You got orders from your CO, didn't you?"

He went utterly still. "He was my goddamn CO."

"Who sent you to fight, harm, and kill people," Stella countered. "And get killed in your turn. I sent you shopping."

"Well, I bloody took those risks, when I signed up, didn't I?" Anger had drained the blood from his face.

"You signed your contract, too."

Something flashed in his eyes, ugly, vicious. Stella flinched back, as he suddenly threw his arms up in the air. The gesture had every appearance of being a surrender sign. The set of his jaw rendered it into a challenge. "Forget it, Brighton. The 3rd degree is too much for a chance at that goddamn bottle."

"Not the 3rd degree." Her mind shaped the proposal as she spoke: The game she and the General always played. "Just three questions. Drink or dare."

He had a fleeting glance at the bottle. Suspicion crawled across his face. Confusion followed on its trail. "Why would I take a dare, when the drink is exactly what I'm after?"

"In reverse," Stella said. "Fair and square, all the way. You get three questions, I get three." She tilted her head, staring up at him. "Answers get us drinks."

Gunn ran his hand over his chin, and screwed up his face, as though ready to give a mocking reply.

"Only three questions, Gunn, nothing more," Stella hurried to say. "The answer has to be truthful, but not necessarily complete."

She anticipated defeat – he wasn't going through with it. But then, he picked up both snifters in his large hand, holding them down by the stem, and placed them next to the bottle. He opened it, in the same efficient manner from before, and poured in the amber liquid, turning the bottle over in his hands to frown slightly at the label.

He pushed the snifter across the table, half distance between them. His lips were stubbornly pressed together.

"Shoot."

Speaking to this man was the same as breaking a code: it involved data selection, and logical thinking. The point here wasn't to twist his arm; the point was to control, but also to placate him. Still, the game felt like a battle. She phrased the words carefully, head buzzing with the natural high from the fight or flight response.

"At some point in the course of your service, you've been more than a private."

Eyebrows drawn over darkened eyes, he pushed the snifter further in her direction. "You might as well have all three drinks now. I won't speak about my service."

"Fine." Stella shrugged one shoulder. She cupped the snifter in her hand, warmed it, and risked a sip. The drink was sweet, and certainly not made of grapes. She tilted her head, inhaled, and swallowed it in one go. The liquid skimmed down her throat, smooth as stones on a pond. She hissed at the burn, twisting her face.

"God! We should have gotten a chaser."

His frowned deepened. "Can you hold it?"

"I am the privileged daughter of a 5-star general," Stella said. With a close protection team always around to mother her - the kind of nannies that needn't even bend their elbows. "What do you think?"

If he was in the least impressed, he didn't show it. He filled up both glasses, and straightened his shoulders, with the accusatory glare of a judge, already convinced of the defendant's guilt, but still compelled by the rules to examine the evidence. "You have orders on me."

"No," Stella said, steadily. "I don't." The game only required her to answer the question; and at the moment, it was perfectly accurate: stand by to stand by.

He shook his head, annoyed, and suspicious. "You, as in, you and Soren."

"No, Gunn," Stella repeated. "We do not. None of us."

He accepted defeat, with a dismissive shrug, and an even tighter press of his lips. "Ask away."   
She released a long breath. "You never signed the contract."

"I did." His sudden, dark chuckle sieged the parapets of her self-imposed calmness. "I would have signed my soul away, if the devil put the papers in front of me. I was high as a kite."

He'd never consented. Stella swallowed hard, around the aftertaste of that nasty brandy, and the guilt, and the lingering sense of shame. She was familiar with the hand applying the second signature on Gunn's contract. But sometimes, she thought maybe she didn't know the General at all.

Gunn picked up the glass, gulped down the content, and refilled it with a steady hand. The alcohol didn't show on him. He was cautious, focused: a commando, trekking across a mine field, fraught with danger at every turn.

"What did your father tell you about me?"

A loaded question, for both of them: Even if she had the answer ready, Stella almost wished for the dare. "He never told me anything about you. He just left me the file. God, I'm going to feel terrible in the morning!"

And grateful for those lemons, too. Stella brought the snifter to her lips. She would have taken her time with the second glass. But the whole point of the game was no time to think. She searched his face, conflicted. It was this, or the mission. Or, this was the mission, in the end: learning if she could trust him.

"I am an easier target then Soren."

Understanding flashed in his eyes. He shook his head, deliberately. "No."

She nodded, ashamed again to experience a wave of relief. He had his second drink, and put down the glass with a sure hand. He drank when he shouldn't, in a hazardous situation, but his tolerance level was high, and his reflexes remained good.

"Maybe not right now," he said, "but you're lying to me."

"I'm sorry, Gunn." She understood his tactics better now: avoidance, avoidance, retreat, more avoidance, strike, strike, strike, final blow, aiming straight for the jugular. Stella wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing gently at her shoulders. "Just have the drink."

"Thank you, but no." His face changed colour, to ashen. He put his palm up, like a barrier, and shook his head determined. "I've had more than I can take."

Stella trailed her fingers across the brim of the glass. The buzz of the alcohol was already receding. More would be a downer. But it wasn't a Freudian slip this time around. Without a doubt, he didn't mean the brandy.

"Boffo!" Soren said to her, sometime latter. "On a scale of one to ten, just how hammered are you right now?"

Stella lifted her head from her bent arm, and sipped from the lemon water in front of her. She massaged her pounding temples. "Remember that time you and Rugby decided I'd be fun to teach me Pontoon?"

"Sicily. Fun times, miss." His face darkened. None of them had thought about Sargent Rutger in a long while. He had been there, in the car, with the General. She was still thorn over it, unwilling to dwell on the implications. "Sit rep?"

"That brandy is poison." Stella dipped her head. "Also, Gunn thinks we're on orders. "

"He said that?" Soren asked, lowering his eyebrows.

"His exact words. He'll cooperate, Soren, if he sees a chance to get out of the contract. He hates it. I dare say more than he hates us."

Soren parked himself on the couch, and bent his arms on his knees, mimicking her position. "I don't mean to sound weird and all that. But I've been thinking: There's something I don't get about the orders."

Stella laughed, wryly. "Understatement of the century. But still, tread carefully."

"I'm not commenting against them, or anything. I've done this, I am doing it." He threw her a slanted glance, his brow furrowed. "I did it, miss."

Recognition sent a set of rubber balls bouncing in her stomach. "You called it in?"

"I called it in."

"Any reply?"

He shook his head. "A read receipt."

Disquieted, Stella splayed her fingers around the glass, enjoying the cool, and the solid. "Shoot."

"An extraction only means two things: the target knows, or is, something someone wants to use. And let's get real, miss: that someone is not the Taskforce, or not Roland's Taskforce, at least. Someone the General trusted, who needed you, because you had the right name to take him out."

"Gunn is no friend of the Taskforce; hence, cooperation. How do you call the enemy of your enemy?"

"A bloody crossword." He was dead serious. "Don't forget the use him part, 'cause that's what's he's heading into, once we're out: a debriefing, or an interrogation. I get why him cooperating with them would make it easier. I don't get why he should cooperate with us. We had every mean to subdue him."

"Let's agree you're not exactly objective, please, Soren."

"Maybe," he said, shrugging one shoulder. "Yes. But even if I stick to business. My life, and yours, miss, would've been so much easier with him handcuffed to the radiator, and doing what he's bloody told for a change."

"No contest," Stella said. As much as she would've liked to contradict him, her logic didn't find anything wrong with Soren's rationale. Only her ethics, but those were secondary to the mission. "So, what's your best guess?"

"You're not gonna like it, miss," Soren warned. He leaned his head back, and rolled his neck, to release the tension. His gaze was lost somewhere, across the window. "There's something he needs to do, for us all to get out. Something he can't be pressed into, not safely, at least. And if he's not willing to do it, we're just as stuck in this hell hole as he is."

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

  
"THE place is filthy," Liam said, in the voice he'd cultured, and that Gunn hated the most: a monotone that dripped with menace. Standing in the middle of the messy living room, he was drinking again, whiskey on the rocks. The ice, long hardened inside the glass, looked almost ductile compared with the set of his jaw.

Gunn's eyes dropped to the upswept floor. He hadn't been doing his chores. "I've been busy."

"I know." Liam took a long sip from this whiskey. "My superiors were kind enough to inform me that my brother passed the introductory flight screening behind my back."

"I only passed the technical tests." Gunn focused on getting out the words, keep his temper under control. "And the medical tests. And the math test. And the physics one. Oh, even the goddamn drug test. Of course, I could still flunk." He had years of training ahead of him, during which he'd never know if he was good enough. "But maybe what you want to say right now is, I'm proud of you, bro."

Liam stared at him, frozen. "You've made your point, Gunn. It's over. I will pull all the favours I can, and take you out."

"Do it," Gunn said, jutting his chin in defiance. He'd hoped Liam might be impressed. But he hadn't gotten his hopes up: barely there, at ground level, with the specks of dust. Now, they were going under, fast and irreversible.

"Throw your weight around. But there are records: My grades, your location services, the admission message where they tell me how great of a pilot I'm going to be, for the homeland. I'll go straight to the JAGs, and you can explain to them why my service wasn't required, after all."

Liam stared him down, narrowing his eyes. "You came out with that idea all on your own?"

Was that so hard to believe? He was nineteen. He had ideas of his own. "I've been paying attention. I get how the system works. Maybe they won't prosecute, but it will hang over your head. Everyone hates your guts, Liam. Someone will do something about it, eventually."

"You get how the system works," Liam parroted, and this time, a trace of feeling layered his voice: disgust.

He put down the glass, slowly. Poised like a large predator, he spun to his left, and kicked Gunn in the shine with the side of his foot. Gunn stumbled, losing his balance. Liam slammed full force into him, twisted his arms behind his back, and pushed him face forward against the wall.

Gunn cursed at him, suspended in a bleary place, in between anger, and the sudden flood of fear. Liam was self-centred, indifferent, even cruel on occasions. But, even with all the trouble Gunn always managed to find himself in, he'd never been violent. Who'd have guessed he'd end up such an overachiever? He'd passed his tests, and gotten his brother to hit him, all in the course of one day.

Liam's hold was heavy, chocking. Heart in throat, Gunn struggled under his weight. Something snapped, and finally gave in the bones of his back. He twisted his neck around, to look at his brother. At close distance, Liam's gaze remained wintry. The stench of alcohol lingered in the air between them. Gunn snarled at him.

"I knew you were a bastard. I didn't know you were a coward, too."

"Maybe. But there's nothing you can do," Liam went on, in the same machine-like baritone. "I'm bigger and stronger than you. I am up, and you are down, no matter how I got you there. You think sucker-punching your opponent is the coward thing to do? Just wait until your live depends on it. Wait until they send you out there, to drop bombs down on cities."

Anger and humiliation tore into his flesh. Gunn leaned into the wall, to hold himself in place, and gave to elbow Liam's stomach. His brother deflected the blow, and released a brief, dark laughter.

"No, you don't. This isn't like the rest of your shit, with the cars, and the parties, and the buzz, and the girls, and the brawls, and god knows what else. You don't fight back. You can't win, anyway, with one arm twisted behind your back. Give up, because that's how it's going to be. This is how the system really works."

Against the odds, Gunn kept struggling, desperate to break the hold. Liam tightened his grip, twisting his arm so high up he couldn't stifle a scream.

"Attack your superior, and they won't prosecute," he said, in his deliberate, venomous tone. "But you'll find your ass on the first plane to India, or the Pacific, or god knows what other hell hole, so fast you'll still be jet-lagged when the bullet finds you. But if you go against orders, you can bet on a court martial. Can you follow simple instructions here, pilot? Stand fucking still!"

He couldn't breathe all of the sudden. The plaster scrapped the side of his face. At the corner of his vision, ice melted in Liam's drink. Condensation drew hypnotic sequences on the glass. Gunn blinked them away. His eyes stung.

Things had always been strained between them. Liam hadn't suddenly woken up one morning, and decided to raise a teenager, after all. Gunn had always been a burden to him. It was over now. He was on his own. Maybe he'd always been, ever since Dad.

A sense of distance, of remoteness, crawled inside him. He stopped fighting all together. At last, Liam released his grip.

"Stupid little shit," he said, pushing away from him, and the sudden emotion in his voice wasn't anger, but desperation. "You tied both my arms behind my back. They will swallow you whole."

Gunn dipped his head under the running water. He hissed when the freezing streak hit the bruised side of his face, and wondered what he might say to Liam now, if he were to suddenly appear in front of him.

It had taken five years of military training, three years of war, and nearly another one in the glasshouse, for him to really grasp that people made mistakes.

That they got trapped into a situation, and ended up losing control of their lives. That sometimes, there were no good choices at all, only bad ones. Gunn wasn't ready to forgive. Certain things remained beyond forgiveness. But he understood, at least.

His eyes wandered across the bathroom walls, stained with soap, and mildew, and dirt. He'd stored what inadequate cleaning supplies Stella Brighton had bought under the sink. In need of something to do, he put on a pair of gloves, and set to work, allowing himself precisely thirty minutes to up the place at training base level.

As he scrubbed the tiled walls, his mind replayed the incident with the MPs. Their superficial check had confirmed his identity as a Cerna alien resident. But he didn't credit that particular scenario with too many chances. When they'd arrived from town, he'd seen Soren, with the Valhalla and the Touchscreen. Later, Stella Brighton had confirmed his suspicions, during the drinking game.

They were looking for a secure connection. Stella Brighton had used the contract only as a pretext to retrieve, and later, to control him. She didn't intend to enforce it, as made clear by their earlier conversations: she didn't require a housemaid. Leave it to Cooler Brighton to plot from beyond the grave. His designs endured, as his legacy to his daughter.

Come what may. Gunn couldn't bear the thought of his next ten years playing out like yesterday, in the village, anyhow.

He didn't even find the resources to be mad. The MPs had done nothing but their job of checking on a suspicious stranger. Their enforcement of the law hadn't been selective, or discriminatory. Gunn had nothing to fight against, not even a perceived injustice.

He couldn't claim the higher moral ground, unlike the whole Cooler Brighton situation, or with his questionable orders that he observed regardless, standing by his word and his decision to join. Or back at the camp, when, as a prisoner, he'd convinced himself it was his duty to resist.

In one go, the administration had rendered him more powerless than his years of war and captivity. He had no way to stand up for himself, and had to rely fully on Stella Brighton.

He rinsed the shower walls, and moved to the floor, wiping it down with a vengeance. On second thought, he couldn't imagine the next ten years playing out at all.

I don't know who the hell you are, Mara had told him, when she'd left him, back in Cerna. Maybe he should read more into her words than a lover's distrust and withdrawal. Women were supposed to be instinctively good at stuff like this.

He was putting everything away, when the cracking of the door dug rusted claws inside his brain. Gunn squeezed his eyes shot. That brandy was nothing short of poison.

"Wow," Soren said, lingering on the threshold, like he didn't quite dare set foot inside. "Cleaning fixation. That's new."

"Just working my way to a life of freedom," Gunn said. "Do you have any more cigarettes?"

Soren pretended not to hear. "How's the hangover?"

"Antisocial."

"Uh-uh. That's all you, and your charming personality. What you want here is water, Cerna, not cigs. Let's go to the kitchen. Stella made something remotely drinkable, and that she calls lemonade."

Condescending much? Gunn dropped the rugs under the sink, with more force than necessary. "You call her Stella, now?"

"In my head." Soren shrugged. "I've known her since she played with toys."

"Let me guess." He straightened up, removed the gloves, and dumped them into the garbage bin. "She broke them."

"No, she lost them. All the time. Then, me and this other guy, Jerry, put trackers on them, and fixed it."

"Lovely story. However deranged."

Soren laughed. He took his time cleaning his hands. With the haircut, he looked more like himself, but he was still uncomfortable with the reflection in the mirror.

"I suspected you were in Brighton's CPT," Gunn said, once it was obvious that he was as decontaminated as a surgeon. "But you weren't in Cerna, were you?"

At the time, the MPs had looked all the same to him. But if he happened to come face to face with one of them again, he'd remember. He should never had pulled that gun on Soren. He'd known, even then.

"No. I left, before the General's last deployment. Took this job half way across the globe, in the Pacific."

They started towards the kitchen, Soren in front, and Gunn loitering behind. He couldn't trust Soren, any more than he could trust Stella Brighton. But, compared with all those people he thought he could trust, at least he knew that much about them.

"There was this air raid one time," he said. It haunted him, yes, but it would not kill him. He could only die once, even if it did. "CDO planes, over Pojina, and they hit a school. And this local boy, eleven or so, was staring at the planes, with his dog by his side. I told him to take cover.

"Then, the damn dog ran in the middle of the street, and the boy went after him. A snipper hit the dog, first. The boy, he just went down. Toppled sideways, and stayed there, facing the sun. We couldn't get to him, not until nightfall. Every force had snippers, everywhere, every corner, every roof, every window. If it moved, they shot. It didn't matter if it was the damn CDO, or the Taskforce, or civilians, or medics, or dogs, or children."

Soren threw him a glance over his shoulder. Shock showed on his face, as he struggled to apply his logic to the horror Gunn evoked. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because you weren't there." He suspected that Brighton had chosen Soren for this mission exactly because he hadn't come in contact with Cerna. "You don't know how it really went down."

Soren skidded to a halt, and turned to face him completely. For once, the look on his face was unguarded. "It was your first war, wasn't it?"

"Why, Soren? It gets easier? Do you get used to dead kids along the way?"

"You wouldn't believe the things people get used to. Look at the government."

"It's still fucked up," Gunn told him. "And anyway, it was my last."

He went in the kitchen after that, all hot and bothered, and had a taste of Stella Brighton's lemon water. It was only half bad. She was nowhere in sight, but the drink was indication of how she fared.

He sat at the table, with his back in the open, and his head spinning with suspicions, and guilt.

He'd been a fool back in Pojina, putting his trust in the Taskforce against all odds, against the evidence. Cerna was a pandemic, infecting everything and everyone it came in contact with. A goddamn airborne virus that could only be contained by killing the carriers; be them soldiers, or generals.

Gunn should have ended things there.

"Hey," Soren called from the living room. "There's a football game on. Wanna watch?"

He dragged his feet to the other room, quiet and bathed in livid overtones, thinking it was a bit early in their relation to turn this domestic. He grabbed his coat along the way, and went to stare at the screen over Soren's shoulder.

"You're really gonna watch soccer on that thing?"

Soren returned a look of question. "I'll put it up on the wall. Touchscreen projector," he said. "Poor quality, and there'd be cracks in the middle of the field. But still."

"I need to get some air," Gunn said. It still rang a little too close to 'may I' for his liking. "Don't smoke in the house, remember?"

Soren's dark, doubtful gaze deepened. "Didn't you say you're out of cigarettes?"

"I didn't say that," Gunn pointed out. "I just asked if you had any." Of course, he was completely out of cigarettes.

"Fifteen minutes, Cerna," Soren said to him.

Gunn went outside, and sat on the steps.

The wind carried the taste of rain, and lightening.

He reached the meeting point, down the street that used to bustle with stores, and life, and traffic. He almost didn't make it: After two days with no food, rest, or sleep, he was tired, and battle-worn.

The bar's door was cracked open, a portal into rust, and desolation. He crept in, along the charred walls, around the piles of broken furniture, and broken lights. His heartbeat resonated deep in his knees, as he focused on moving his feet, one step at the time. The fatigues, stiff and stained with more than he cared to think, chaffed his skin.

A long time ago, he'd craved a dance with Mara here.

Graffiti covered the mirror wall, the looping letters duplicated in the smashed glass, and the whole place felt like a tomb. Smelled like one, too, of dried blood, and gunpowder, and salt. Or maybe it was him, after two days of battle. Gunn squinted his eyes, to decipher the writing: Three simple words, God says goodnight.

He caught movement at the edge of his vision, and spun around, brining up his revolver. Matko emerged from the shadows. Gunn experienced a brief, intense moment of clarity. He lurched forward. Matko opened his arms, in the warm, welcoming Cerna manner.

"Skylight. You made it."

"I shot my way through half the town." His speech was slurred with exhaustion. He tucked the revolver in his pants, not the holster, and let it all out, breathless, while he reckoned he could still speak.

"Brighton is moving into Pojina. The Taskforce turned arms on Cerna. Rehak's dead."

"I know." Deftly, Matko pulled a wobbly wooden chair from the pile of debris, and straddled it. His face was all drawn. His fatigues were dusty, but way cleaner than Gunn's uniform.

"Sorry I left you behind, Skylight. I couldn't protect you anymore. But you'll be fine now. The Taskforce is coming."

"Rehak's dead, Matko," Gunn repeated, not caring, not yielding. Something in his bones weighed him down, and it wasn't the exhaustion and dread of the last two days. "His family, too. His close protection team. He was in a hideout, no longer at the residence. But they found him, still. "

"I've learned, SL. The whole city did. Brighton JDAM-ed him."

Gunn nodded, in acknowledgement. In retaliation for Viviani's death, a fighter plane had steered a 500 tons bomb on the secret hideout of Cerna's commanding officer. There was no proof that Cerna had ended Viviani. Regardless, the Taskforce had gone overboard with making a point: General Rehak, his close protection team and his entire family had been killed on the spot. Then, the Taskforce had streamed the blast on a decrypted website, in a loop, for everyone to see.

"But you live."

Gunn searched Matko's face. Betrayal clawed at his skin. It licked at his wounds with its lizard tongue, and the venom left him scorched. "Because you weren't there. Because you've been feeding information to the Taskforce. And to Rehak, too, from the Taskforce. But you let him think you got it from me. And that he could intoxicate the Taskforce, through me. How did you pull it off, Matko? You told him I was a mole?"

"Oi, Skylight!" Matko bobbed his head, with the indulgence of a teacher explaining a simple task to the class."Ever wondered why you made is this far? How come no one put a bullet in your head all this time?"

"Is this why I wasn't sent home?" So the brass could play Rehak the way they wanted, further and further into a war that had been lost from the start? So that Matko could use Gunn, to keep Rehak trusting him? "Who is your command? Whose orders do you take, Matko?"

"Don't be stupid, Skylight. Who always gives the orders?" Matko's eyes travelled down, at the floor under the wobbly chair, and clicked his tongue in frustration. "It's bigger than you, or me. But I'm glad you figured it out. I hated lying to you all this time."

"Yeah, you're my buddy, Matko," he said, with bitterness. He was a pawn, in a game he didn't understand. A game that had left him stranded in a war that wasn't even his, and that had all but erased Cerna from the map of civilisation. He thought about the man who'd once asked him to use his sway, and convince Rehak not to send his people to certain death. When had he changed? "Why did you even do it? They're your people."

"That psycho Rehak was nothing mine," Matko spat. For the first time, a flicker of emotion showed into his eyes: hate. "What does it even matter? Cerna can never stand up to the CDO, or to your Western Coalition. Country's FUBAR, either way. You're all right, kid, but you need to wake the fuck up. It's every man for himself."

"Shut up," Gunn snapped, thinking about the boy. His hand found the revolver's grip. He'd had enough, he was goddamn sick of it. He pulled out the gun, held it in the man's face. His fingers shook on the trigger. "You son of a bitch, double crossing traitor!"

On cue, they moved in from the shadows, circling him, in a frenzy of shouts and flashlights. He stared in disbelief at the MPs, at their Taskforce uniforms, at the specs of red light, mounted on their weapons, and trained on him.

"Weapon, weapon, weapon!"

"Don't move!"

"Hands where I can see them!"

"See, Skylight?" Sarcasm dripped from Matko's voice. "They're your people. Try your own medicine."

Gunn's head whipped around, twisting the strained sinews in his neck. His sense of time turned absurd, dream-like. The broken glass mirrored the red lights, like so many stars. He blinked away raw spots from his vision, and decided it wasn't real, it wasn't happening.

The Sergeant next to him, broad-shouldered, face hardened, waved his AK, in exasperation. "Drop the gun, now!"

He knew a man's face, when he was set on upping his kill-score. Nausea crawled out from the pits of his stomach. He dropped the weapon, and put his hands in the air. Strong hands grabbed hold of both his arms.

"Take him outside. Keep him there, until further notice."

Gunn let them put him on his belly, let them frisk him and take him away, without opposition. From the threshold, he turned his head, giving Matko one last look. The Sargent had moved by his side. Matko grinned at him. The Taskforce solider reached into his pocket, and smiled back.

A swoosh! cut through the air. Matko's head bobbed, back and forward. His chin dropped against the backrest. His face was frozen in an expression of utter disbelief. He'd been wondering, over the last two days, if Matko even had a conscience. Now, he could see inside his brain, into darkness.

"Kid's right," the Sargent said, pulling the silencer off his weapon. "Fucking traitor."

 


	13. Chapter 13

Dull rain fell on him, from up in the satellite-crowded sky. Mist was raising from the ground. On the day of Matko's death and Gunn's arrest in Pojina, he'd been willing to face a court martial, against the chance of returning home. After Brighton had set him up, he had gotten stuck in a limbo, taking one day at the time, and refusing to think about the next. Was Highwater the place where he'd turned into a coward, or he'd been one all along?

The front door opened. He should go in: He was growing numb, and his fifteen minutes were up. Gunn spun around, intent on giving Soren meticulous fuck off instructions. It wasn't Soren. Wary as a cat, a real one, not the sensual imitation he'd seen other women do, Stella Brighton waited on top of the stairs.

She wrapped her arms around her, against the wind. Dressed in her eternal jeans and sweater, with the grey eyes and beautiful lips, she was a pretty thing that could almost pass for harmless.

"It's freezing out here."

"Yes."

"I hate it," she stated. "Come inside, Gunn."

Well, if she hated it! He stood up, slowly, and walked up the stairs, stopping right in front of her. One step higher than him, they were finally eye to eye. Adding to his sense of irritation, the distance between them outlined her body, hinting disturbingly at warmth and softness.

"Are you serious?"

The steel of her gaze parted the drizzle into thin, tottering walls. "I'm afraid so. There's... something. All over the news. I think you want to see." She gave a smile, mirthless and edgy. "They cut off Soren's game."

"What happened, Brighton?"

"The IJCS is setting up a commission to look into the war in Cerna. They're investigating the Northern Taskforce. Vivini, my father." Her voice dropped a note, and she scanned him with wary, feline concentration. "General Roland just recused himself from the works."

Damn, it was cold! Way too cold for him to be this bloody hot all of the sudden, in the goddamn cheap, plastic raincoat! Gunn snapped the collar open, and breathed in the mist, and the rain.

As far as he knew, in the history of military government, no commission had ever established the truth. The IJCS was expert in the art of tacking smokescreens together: A sham of an investigation into a controversial matter, ending with a favourable report, eventually whitewashed the whole thing. But they were bound to dig into Cerna, and digging around Cerna had a way of turning lethal.

In hindsight, Gunn had known he was done for the moment Stella Brighton had stepped foot in the camp. This commission she appeared so invested in was just too much of a coincidence.

He pushed his hands into his pockets, and bluffed his way through. "Roland is General of the Army of the Northern Taskforce. He can't very well sign the Taskforce a clean bill. It defies the purpose."

"You suspect it's a cover-up?"

"No. The IJCS is about to admit that the Taskforce messed up, and, in the process, obliterated a small nation."

Her breath played fleetingly on her lips, and then vanished into the mist. "They might. Pin it on my father, or Viviani. If they're found guilty, as their CO, Roland won't look all that great. Dead men can't defend themselves, can they? "

Gunn couldn't help but scowl. She was a bright thing; she had to realise, eventually, that living men hardly stood a better chance. "Can I see those news?"

She nodded, a little too quickly. The wind seemed to ripple all through her. "Sure, yes. Soren is trying to access more information."

His mind was at odds with his body: His muscles had locked. Gunn pressed against the numbness, just enough to walk inside stiffly. He pulled off his coat in the hallway, and let it fall to the floor. He felt like he'd been running for miles, like he was running still, against the odds, against the clock.

"Investigative commissions are expensive," Stella Brighton said, once they finally settled around the device. "Who is funding this one?"

Soren projected the stream on the wall, diffuse images overlaying the mould stains and the cracks. He'd split the screen: On the one side, the official station; on the other, pirate websites. The official media played things soft, business as usual, yet another commission looking into the operation details versus the costs involved.

The illegal websites were all red and yellow with breaking news headlines. Soren jerked his head away from the Touchscreen. "The buzz on darknet is the Brits are sponsoring it. They aren't Roland's fans in the least."

"The British aren't exactly fans of anyone but the British," Stella Brighton observed. "But they're only a small part of the Taskforce. The Northern branch alone outweighs them. Also, we can't dismiss Gunn's cover up theory."

Soren shrugged. "The Brits have good intel, usually. And connections. I can think of several other nations, in and outside the Western Coalition, that would be far more comfortable without Roland. With the right ammo, they might convince the majority. But then again, they might not. In the past, these commissions had... mixed results. Hey, check this out: Official Taskforce release."

The camera focused on a handsome man in his forties, blond hair spiked with silver. He was dressed in formal Taskforce uniform, chest full of stars, and addressed the reporters from high on a podium. His face showed the same amount of enthusiasm as that brought about by a toothache.

"The North Atlantic Taskforce is working closely with the IJCS, and is ready to provide all necessary data and information. We believe the public deserves to know the sacrifices that were made, and that safety comes at a cost. The procedures in place must be observed, also. Sensitive military information must be protected, in the interest of homeland security. We make no other statements and take no questions at this time."

Gunn stared in shock at the screen, stared in shock into the past: It was catching up with him, vile as all things unearthed after having been put in the ground to rot.

"Translation," Soren said. "They're ready to bury the IJCS in paperwork, and drag it on forever."

"I agree. The Northern Taskforce will fight this tooth and claw." With a doubtful expression, Stella Brighton analysed the picture on the screen. "I didn't catch the name. Which one of Roland's sidekicks is he?"

Gunn swallowed down bile. Soren's face twisted in an expression of disgust. "That's one self-serving bastard: Colonel Holt."

"Colonel Holt, the pilot? Highest killing score in modern history? I did think he looked familiar!"

"He was a pilot, back when he still had a backbone." Soren grimaced,again. "Had that removed and climbed up the ladder, to Roland's security council."

"Yes," Stella Brighton said. "I remember I'd seen him around. He follows after Roland like a shadow."

Gunn wanted to laugh, and he wanted to scream. He didn't know what expression his face carried, but she transferred the full weight of her attention to him.

"Are you alright?"

He was suffocating. "May I open a window?"

"Sure," Soren drawled. "Why don't I just move freezing to the top of today's to-do list?"

Gunn gave up, and went to sit by the window instead. Outside, the wind and rain scribbled foreign letters across the sand, firm and final like a verdict: All is numbered, weighted and divided. The dunes surrounded them, a cemetery of hope. Without doubt, this life would kill him. He was to die here, as a man who had never lived.

"There's all kind of leaks and rumours." Soren rubbed a hand across his face. "Most of them ridiculous. The somewhat credible ones... "

He closed most of the tabs, muted and minimised the Bullshit Network, and went full screen on one of the clandestine sites.

"League for Democracy dot i2P. Libtards. Take it with a grain of salt, but still worth the read."

He played the video. Under the title "Cerna not in Control of Hostile Satellite", followed by red question and exclamation marks, the self-titled 'League for Democracy' provided the fast facts of the conflict. The computer distorted voice was illustrated with pictures of the war.

"More than 200,000 people lost their lives in the Cerna conflict. The number of Western soldiers wounded or dead in the operations led by Generals Patrick M. Viviani and Kevin S. Brighton, both serving under General of the Army Francis G. Roland, exceeds 25,000. "

Gunn watched the wall: Refugees gathering outside a church; sniper positions on the slopes of the hills; soldiers, returning fire in downtown Pojina; smoke and flames, raising from a house set on fire; a woman, standing by a fresh grave.

He'd hated those goddamn media drones, always hovering over their heads. And the decisions behind, the people in news rooms, clandestine or official, cherry-picking what footage better suited their ends. But the pictures they played now, he saw them, each time he closed his eyes at night.

"Data in possession of the League for Democracy confirms that several intelligence briefs, highlighting the risk of regional instability, and the immense and unnecessary casualties, had been made available to the Northern Taskforce, before the decision to deploy Western troupes. Faulty, and even misleading data might have been provided to the International Joint Chiefs of Staff: Reliable sources close to the events quote pre-existing information that neither Cerna, nor the CDO, controlled the hostile satellite.

"Our sources further reveal that the Vetogradin strike might have been part of a covert operation of the Northern Taskforce, code-named 'Fire Sky'. If confirmed by the investigation, the Northern Taskforce provoked and engaged in war by proxy, in breach of the Decommission Treaties. The Kingdom of Great Britain and Wales, one of the few Western powers that vetoed the deployment of Western troupes, has been pushing for almost three years for an investigation into Cerna.

"It is probable for several high-ranking officers connected to the Cerna operations to be called before the future commission. The former theatre commanders, Generals Viviani and Brighton, both very conveniently killed in action, in Cerna's capital, the city of Pojina, rank between the notably absent."

The footage ended abruptly, with the dramatic image of a mortar attack on an open, crowded market, a chaos of twisted limbs and desperate facial expressions: Pieces that people were made of, messy, broken and scattered, spilled and blown, and bloodied. Not living; no longer human.

Gunn was not in the least religious. For him, god was simply an interjection. But maybe there was something more to life, after all. Some fantastic gizmo, keeping together all those small parts that turned into something else entirely, horrid and frightening, in its absence.

Stella Brighton looked away, face pale.

"They imply someone killed the General to silence him." She wiped her hands on the top of her jeans, as if she'd found them soiled all of the sudden. "He could have testified."

Soren gave a terse shake of his head. "I warned you, miss. You cannot trust everything they say."

She curled her fingers into small fists. "Roland is making a grab for power. I've always thought him more than ready to step on a few bodies in the process, and my father was a rival to him. But this goes against all laws. If it's true, it amounts to treason. My father would never have agreed, he would never have condoned anything illegal. More reason for Roland to get rid of him."

Anger shot all through him. It was illegal, and Brighton wouldn't? "Your father JDAM-ed General Rehak. His wife and kids were in the house with him. His guards, too. A cook; the nanny, those boys were eight, and twelve. They made a video, and played it, the blast, the charred bodies, lined up in front of the ruins. I wouldn't bet a dime on his ethics."

She spun around to face him. "My father ended the war in six months. I'm sure he wouldn't have knowingly bombed children. They already said the intel was flawed. Maybe he couldn't risk a ground operation." She kept looking for a justification of the indefensible. There wasn't one. She realised it, also, and bent her eyes to the floor, biting into her lips. Blood rose crimson in the small indentations left there by her teeth.

"What is it about this war, Gunn? I know you don't trust us. But I have to make decisions that affect us all. Is it all that unbalanced? I'd have to trust you, too. I have no key of control, do I?"

Gunn saw what she was doing: an argument from ignorance. She could not disprove his mistrust. She could not prove her alleged trust in him. But he could talk to her. He'd been doing nothing but ever since he'd met her, for all that he'd told himself that he wasn't.

"Knowledge isn't power, Brighton. Power is power." With everything he knew, he didn't – he'd never had any. All he had were images of dead kids, and their dead dogs, brought down for no reason other than crossing a street someone with a gun had claimed as theirs. "But fine, OK."

The air was chilly in the room, but he felt like he was breathing scalding vapours. The burn layered his voice. "They're right about operation 'Fire Sky'. The Taskforce wanted a rogue satellite, and plausible deniability, to better supervise the military activities of the CDO.

"Cerna agreed to put it out there, under their flag. My best guess, they either bribed Rehak, or blackmailed him into it. But Cerna lacked the expertise, and the resources. So, the Taskforce put together a team, for a two-month mission, preparations and launching."

The minutia of the mission, each detail relevant, those small pieces of a perfect puzzle sliding in place, surfaced in his mind: Gaining height slowly, glued to the back of the seat; flying between the clouds, the powerful, perfect machine answering to his commands, the quickening of his heat rate, the power rush. And then, eventually, the fallout.

Stella Brighton tilted her head, very slowly, glancing up at him with an air of calm determination, like a gambler holding all the aces. "Were you part of the team?"

Just forget, he told himself. Just forget how fucking scared you are. Speak. Say all there is to say.

This was his debriefing. Or, in lieu; the closest he might ever come to being heard, which was all the same: His entire goddamn life poorly compensated for something that wasn't, but should have been. Gunn delivered the story like it was a report, with the reigned-in desperation of a pilot trapped inside a burning cockpit, with no way out but down.

"I put it on orbit."

Soren's jaw went slack. "You're Taskforce?"

"Air Force, Republic of California. But I got transferred to Europe. I trained for 18 months in Guiana, for the Cerna mission."

Soren glared at him, in open mistrust. "I suppose you have a name and rank to back that up."

"I was a flight lieutenant," Gunn said. Sweat layered his palms. He clenched them inside his pockets, out of sight. "I couldn't believe they'd choose me. When they transferred me to Special Ops, they moved me up the ranks so high, it made my head spin. Squadron Leader. Should have triggered the alarm bells; but I was stupid, ambitious."

Feeling he still had something to prove, to Liam, to himself. And then he was, at long last, the golden boy, squadron leader at only 25. Roland had bought and owned him, with an ego brush and a rank. But really, it had been about his name, nothing more. His blood connection to Liam, dragging them both to the bottom, like cement shoes.

Soren jutted out his chin, his eyes narrowed and focused. "Name and number?"

Gunn laughed, darkly. Soren was to bound love this one. "Holt," he said. He wasn't proud. He was not relieved. He but was, where, for a long time, he hadn't been. "1572941, Holt, Thomas Gunn."

Soren's fingers danced across the Touchscreen. The projection changed to reveal the public profile on a service wall, among the millions of the Taskforce: the picture of a young man in Airforce uniform, with short blond hair, and a cocky smile. SQNLDR Holt, Thomas Gunn. A Taskforce sticker – the banner, at half-staff. MIA. Presumed dead.

'We Salute the Heroes.'

They'd figured out how to kill him, after all. In his own name, and completely impersonal. So then, he was; as if he hadn't been in the least. And no longer the hero, for certain, should he suddenly rise from the dead.

"Son of a bitch!" Soren's voice was grating, as if something sour had remained stuck inside his throat. "Confirmed."

Stella Brighton's eyes stabbed him all the way to the core. "Roland's little helpers. The Holts." Her fingers worried the sleeves of her sweater, and her face reflected pure disgust. She'd thought him an enemy prisoner, and still not looked at him that way.

"No, it was not like that. I already told you, Brighton, plain idiot brain. Like a good little soldier, I never questioned the orders. It never occurred to me to look at the big picture, or wonder about their plan."

She didn't look convinced. "Who's they?"

Not the IJCS. “The Northern brass, calling the shots. Viviani. Brighton. Roland." He smirked, angered. She'd said she was willing to trust him. They had told him what a great pilot he was. Matko had told him he was a friend. "Take your pick."

"Not my father." She shook her head, with iron conviction. "Who was your direct CO?"

"General Viviani."

"And the orders?"

"To launch 'Fire Sky'. But something went wrong. The strike on Vetogradin occurred. I was waiting for clearance to come home, when it went down.

"My orders arrived on the same night." The drinking roulette, in the bar, with Marko, and Mara. "It wasn't clearance. I'd been appointed military liaison officer for Cerna. Go with, fight with, they said. I never questioned them. I bought the hijack theory, because what else could it have been?"

He'd done it so many times before, falling into the pattern of conformity just like a machine, like his plane out there, that the thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Sometimes, people built worlds inside their heads, maybe in order to bear with this one. Gunn supposed he'd come a long way since. Several parts of him wished he'd never had.

"The COMM were cut off soon after that. My next contact with the Taskforce was six months into the war, when Viviani arrived with the troupes. He reconfirmed the initial orders, and asked that I report directly to him. There was still hope for a truce, and they wanted an open channel with Cerna. They trust you, he said. You fought with them.

"I went on with the Cerna army, and we ended up trapped in Pojina. After Viviani got himself KIA, Brighton sieged the city."

"Did you report to him?" Stella Brighton asked. She kept her tone professional, detached, but her lips were white with tension. "What did my father do?"

He closed his eyes, briefly. Stand easy, Brighton had said, keeping him in the rain at gunpoint. The cowboy and I will have a talk sometime. How would you like a court martial, sonny boy?

"He slammed a pair of handcuffs on me, and had me tagged as a Cerna prisoner. Woke up in Highwater, coming down so hard after apache I couldn't spell my own name." He breathed in, tired, worn out. Brighton hadn't killed him, like he'd had Matko. He'd put Gunn away, in case he might have need of him alive.

A smoking weapon, carefully stored away. Maybe there was a time self-destructive side to him, after all. He was ripping away the bandages from an old, festering wound, pushed by some morbid curiosity to look and see, despite the pain, despite knowing that it would bleed.

"I thought about it. The launch codes were delivered directly, over a secured connection. Cerna never had them." Gunn wiped his lips with the back of his hand, but nothing would erase the taste of murder and betrayal.

"I punched in some digits, and didn't care about anything but my chance to launch a goddamn satellite. It must have been me, all along. I programmed the kinetic strike. Started a goddamn genocide."

Her questions kept coming at him, like clean-aimed bullets. "Who passed on the codes to you?"

Gunn pressed the heels of his hands over his eyes. The familiar voice echoed in his ear, inflectionless, guiding him through the process of digging his own grave.

"Liam. Colonel Holt."

Soren sprung to his feet. "Of course!" He slammed his opened palm into the table. "I always wondered what the fuck Roland needed a flight advisor for!"

"Cerna never made sense." Stella Brighton breathed, in and out, steadying herself. Emotions played briefly on her face, a short battle that she fought and won.

"All intel simulations failed, because they'd been compromised from the start. Roland wanted a war to convince the IJCS how much they needed a General of the Armies, so they planned and started one. Him, Holt, Viviani, who kept dragging it on. My father was appointed by the IJCS, and ended it in six months. He must have vexed Roland to no end when he took his toys away. If this commission uncovers the truth, it will be his end."

Gunn wasn't all that sure about Brighton not being involved. His suspicions revolved more on a power struggle between him and Roland. Maybe Brighton wanted the supreme position for himself. But what did it matter, in the end, if he let her think her father a better man than he'd been? At least now he understood the end game, the implications of Stella Brighton's mission. She'd built a world inside her head, too, one where she was able to fight, and win. One where Gunn was likely the bullet intended to avenge the General. He wouldn't, even if he could. He'd touch none of Brighton's designs.

Stella Brighton sat at arm's length from him, but she couldn't have been further away. Gunn imagined he'd already shaken the foundations of her world. Now, he was prepared to shutter it to the ground.

"They're all dead now." Everyone connected with 'Fire Sky', Rehak, Viviani, Brighton, Matko. "Except for Roland, Liam and I. I imagine it's a matter of time. There always has to be an escape goat. It will not be Roland. That footage before - Liam didn't look all that happy, did he? I suspect by now he knows it, too. And the two of you - "

You tied both my hands, Liam had told him, and he'd been dead right, dead right about everything. Gun halted to breathe, in sync with Stella Brighton: Her chest rose, and fell, along with his.

"Whatever you think you're doing, you need to take a moment and think. Ask yourself the same question I should've. Do you really want to follow your orders here?

"You have options, the way I see it, a cover story that's sound enough. Turn me in, and let the Taskforce and Roland, and their bloody commission deal with me. I don't have to be your problem, Brighton. Trust me, you're in over your head."

Soren's eyes, dark and heavy with doubts, weighted him. Hers were cold, hard metal: She could not disprove his story, any more than he was able to prove it, bringing the game of reason to a draw. It all amounted to trust, and she was unwilling to trust him. For some reason, it was vital that someone – that she did.

"I should tell you why they kept me in Cerna."

He told them about Matko; how he was a member of Rehak's special ops close protection team. How he'd volunteered to babysit Gunn. How Matko had convinced Rehak he'd found a way inside the Taskforce, through him. How Gunn had been a pawn, and Matko, a mole of the Taskforce all along. And how he'd gotten his brains blown off, on the day when Pojina fell, on Brighton's orders.

"This is how the system works. It covers all fronts - military strategy is what they do, after all. You see now, Brighton, why the commission is a sham? If it's a whitewash, Roland comes out just fine. If the commission actually discovers something, he'll charge Liam with treason. And Viviani, and Brighton. And me. The commission will eventually identify systemic deficiencies in the Taskforce, family relations, risks. Roland will jump at the opportunity to purge and reorganise the whole chain of command."

Stella Brighton's face seemed carved in ice. But she was a bright one, indeed, catching up fast. "He'll ask them for more power; a stronger hand. He'll make General of the Armies, and put his pawns in positions of authority. And then Roland will control the western world."

"Game over, Brighton," Gunn said. "He already won. Cut your losses, while you still can. Walk away."

 


	14. Chapter 14

STELLA ran along the slope, against the wind and the lingering fog. The shoreline, all rough pebbles and wet sand, constantly slid or sunk under her feet. Her legs were sore with fighting the friction. Irrelevant; she needed to be out, away from the bare, cold house, away from Gunn and his revelations.

Maybe she was a bit of a coward, then. And maybe Roland had been right to fire her. She was, for all accounts and purposes, a poor excuse for an analyst.

She should have observed the scope of the mission. It didn't even require her to dig into Gunn's past. Instead, she'd insisted on learning the truth, keen on lifting the thick blanket the General had thrown over his affairs. In the process, she'd missed all the signs: Gunn's perfect English, his surprising insight into the Western military structures, the always impersonal references to Cerna.

She'd only connected the dots once he had decided to speak. Stella expected secrets. She was not naïve enough to imagine they might be harmless. But the reality was grimmer than her darkest thoughts.

Her father, the tough-fighting commander, had never had qualms about getting a bit of dirt on his hands. But he'd never been cruel - if for no other reason, at least because the General had always found cruelty highly inefficient. And he had been loyal to the homeland, to the laws and rules that governed it.

Now, Gunn claimed that he'd broken those very laws. That the General had eliminated a secret operative. That he'd assaulted, drugged and unlawfully detained another officer of the Taskforce; that he'd forged documents and records, and that, in doing so, he had possibly perverted the course of justice in the political and military scandal of the century.

And the worst part about all that was that Stella believed him. If the General had thought Gunn involved in Roland's conspiracy, he would have shared the fate of the Cerna agent. Her father wouldn't have touched anything Roland had already bought.

The route was turning steeper. She soldiered on, screened by the fog. Freezing water splashed from muddy puddles on the ground. The effort was taking a toll on her breathing. Slowing down her tempo, Stella inhaled deeply. A knife cut through her right side, just below the ribs. She came to a halt. Her lungs seemed to resist the air. Biting into her lips, Stella sat in the sand, and tried to make sense of her surroundings.

Hard to tell, with all the layers of fog wrapped around her. It felt like she'd been not running, but climbing for hours, which was ridiculous. It couldn't have been more than one, perhaps less. Stella put her head between her bent knees, and breathed in and out through the pain. Then, her skin prickled with the sense of another presence. She raised her head, and there it was all right, a now-familiar tall shape, closing on her through the mist.

"Try walk-breaking next time."

With the benefit of hindsight, she could see the resemblance with Colonel Holt. Nothing striking; a subtle combination of genetics and common nurture, suggestive of a connection by blood, the same air of familiarity that had caught her attention during Holt's press conference: The eyes, the broad line of the shoulders, the stubborn set of their jaw – and the condescendence.

Something stirred inside her, spiteful and mean. Stella didn't have a name for it, nor the power of the desire to fight it.

"Expert on running, Squadron Leader? Cerna schools, also?"

"Air Force mandatory workout," Gunn said, seemingly unruffled. "But Cerna, too, mostly dogging bullets. I'd not been trained for ground action before. Isn't it ironic? I was supposed to stay up in the air."

Stella cast him a slanted look. He was also dressed for running, and badly. The clothes he'd bought in the village didn't suit him any better than Soren's castaways. It wasn't only Highwater's fishermen's winter collection going back a decade. It was that everything he put on looked like a poor imitation of a uniform. His cheeks were a little red with cold and effort, but he showed no signs of discomfort. He couldn't have recovered completely after the fight with Soren. Apparently, the damn walk breaks did the trick.

"I don't need tips," she told him, coldly. "Or company, quite frankly."

"I just went out for a jog. It's either towards the village, or the camp, and the camp wasn't an option." He opened his arms wide about him. "I could go. Are you sure you can manage?"

Stella's face twisted in a frown. Her side stung like a stab wound. Her grimace had to do with more than the physical discomfort.

"Do I amuse you?"

He returned a confused glance. "Excuse me?"

"Don't analyse me. I'm not complicated," Stella parroted, recalling the day in the village, when he'd asked her about her job, and the irony in his eyes. She must have looked the part of the fool, struggling to piece together what little he revealed, when every single word passing his lips was intended to deceive. She couldn't help the pang of disappointment, and the bitterness. "Throwing me off the tracks – I suppose I didn't make it all that difficult for you. Did you have fun?"

He buried his hands inside his pockets, and gave her a long, stern look. "Of course, I did. My life was on the line. It was a real barrel of laughs."

The reality of the situation tumbled over her like a crushing wave. Her pride had taken a blow, but she was hardly the victim here. He didn't owe her honesty, and not everything was about her. She wasn't even entitled to ask, or to complain. Just, she supposed, a little... entitled. The cold bit into her face like a burn. "I'm sorry. I am being an idiot."

He shrugged, and held up his hand to her, with an air of challenge. "Sand's nasty."

The gale stirred, chillier than social kisses at a charity gala. The hell with it! She was aching and numb, light-headed with exhaustion and insufficient oxygen. Stella's frozen fingers slid along the lines of his palm. His large, warm hand, bony knuckles still patched up in bio-skin, closed around hers. He yanked her up ungracefully, driving a knife even deeper under her ribs. Stella hissed. He let go of her hand. Free, and uncertain all of the sudden, Stella pressed her palm against the painful spot.

"Goddamn side stich!"

He scanned her with his wintry eyes. "You could have taken the car for a spin. You driving is less... extreme."

Translation: he would have rather taken out the car. She wished, just for once, that he'd say what he really meant. "It's just this sand, and this weather. I'm not a beginner. I run and I climb, regularly. I'm alright."

He shrugged one shoulder. "We should head back, then. It's getting late."

"I don't even know where we are. Where are we?"

"Close to the old satellite. It's a long way."

"Not that long," Stella said. She had no idea how she'd made it that far. "Walk-break?"

He nodded. They started down the slope. He set a brisk pace, elbows bent and hands lightly cupped by his sides. The pull of gravity deep in her bones, Stella pushed herself to keep up.

"I'd decided you were Cerna oligarchy," she told him. Confusion of the subject with the information about them was a common cognitive trap for intelligence analysts. "Someone with access to fast cars and western boarding schools, well enough to pick up the electricity bill for an entire street."

He stifled a brief laughter. "Liam had me work the whole summer for that bill. At the garage, which was kind of fun. I wasn't really going anywhere. He'd never take a leave, and he'd blown all his savings on the car. It was fast, and pretty, and he didn't even like it all that much, but he'd made major. It was expected."

Stella bobbed her head. It was common knowledge that Holt didn't come from money. He'd built his carrier on pure talent: The Taskforce rotated its flying aces to training bases, but Liam Holt stubbornly returned to the cockpit. He wasn't liked, but he was respected, and he'd worked his way up from cadet to colonel, which was as high as one normally got without influence and connections. And then he'd given up flying, for a position in Roland's staff. The implications were obvious: Holt kept his eyes on the prize. He wanted a general star.

"It's called mirror imaging. A rookie mistake."

"You know, you're really odd for an analyst, Brighton. You got everything you wanted from me, in the course of one week. Hard facts. And here you are, obsessing about how your original suppositions were wrong."

The perspective shift startled her. "That's only because you decided to tell me."

"Yes," he said. "You asked. Wasn't that the whole point?"

Stella bit into her lips. Of course, voluntary disclosure was the whole point. But she'd built her strategy around an enemy prisoner, not an officer of the Taskforce. It was sheer luck that it hadn't backfired.

"I think you had your own reasons, and very little to do with me."

"Really?" He narrowed his eyes, staring down on her. "How do you suppose our little drama might have played out if you put me in an interrogation room, with Soren and the bracelet remote? You must have some idea, since you didn't do it."

"Coercive techniques are generally ineffective."

"According to what, the training manual? I think we both recall one instance when they worked perfectly fine."

Her eyes darted to his. "If that's your definition of perfectly fine, you may want to check your COMM systems, Squadron, because something in there is definitely screwed-up. But since you mentioned it, what are the consequences for attacking an officer of the Taskforce?"

He seemed to miss his footing in the sand, but quickly regained balance. "I'm sure you can always claim self-defence. I was raving."

She blinked, surprised once again by the frankness of the admission. "Were you?"

"I had a window of opportunity, and I took it. I craved the fight, and didn't care about the odds. But you found the stop button."

She inhaled deeply, through the ache in her chest. "I'm really sorry I... galvanised you, Gunn. For the record, I hated it."

"Not that particular button." He came to a halt, so abruptly Stella nearly bumped into him, and turned to look her straight in the eye. Sliver of ice showed in his irises. "The part where you were very careful not to leave me with anything to fight against."

"Fine." She shrugged, more nonchalantly than she felt. Was it really a mind game, if all players were well-aware? "Coercive techniques were not effective in your particular case."

"You no longer need any techniques. I told you everything there is. You could end it, Brighton. We could drive straight to Marcus, right now."

The wind howled over the empty beach, strewing moist sand over the both of them. It occurred to her that she couldn't prevent him, if he put his mind to get inside that car. Ante, Gunn R., was a Cerna prisoner with no rights. Holt, Thomas Gunn, was a Taskforce superior officer, with no criminal record or restrictions, for the time being, at least. If he wanted to walk out the door, it would be against the law to prevent him.

"And what would the Taskforce do to you?"

"Your father threatened a court martial," he said, face stark. "Maybe I'll save myself the circus, and plead guilty."

The salt in the air poked her lips with tinny needles. Her gaze fell to his footsteps in the sand, large, and rough, and steady. Terrible things had happened to this man, and she couldn't even pretend to wrap her mind around them. But he didn't have an exclusive claim to the truth, or, apparently, a claim to wisdom.

"Sounds like an awful plan. You only have a theory, Gunn. A sound one, yes, but it does have its holes."

"Does it?"

"As far as the Taskforce is concerned, you're MIA. Roland has no clue you're alive."

"In your opinion," Gunn said darkly. "He very well might. Maybe, with the commission about to start, your father tried to twist his arm. When you point a gun at someone, you better make sure they know it's loaded."

"My father had nothing to negotiate with Roland. To the contrary. It's more likely that he wanted to use the commission to take him down." The General was gone less than a month. In the meantime, a commission that had been dragging on for the past three years had taken on with incredible speed. It was too much of a coincidence. "He had you, and possibly more evidence. My best guess – emphasis on guess, Gunn, is that he had someone inside Roland's circle. He was getting closer, and Roland found out."

Gunn tilted his head, searching her face from under lowered eyebrows. "Go on."

"Colonel Holt," Stella said, holding her breath. A month back she wouldn't have believed the General capable of blackmail. "My father could have... secured his cooperation, as long as he had you."

"No." He shook his head, his expression darker than a moonless night in Helsinki. "Liam tried to stop me when I took the Cerna mission, but he and I aren't close. We haven't been, in years."

"You said he tried to stop you."

"You don't know anything about Liam. True, he didn't want me on this mission." His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. "He did tell me to walk away. I think his exact words when Viviani selected me were 'monumentally stupid'. Liam has a twisted way of dealing with this thing he has in place of a conscience. Kept it quiet for the time it took him to dictate the codes to me, for sure."

He stuffed his hands inside his pockets, and started down the path again, at slower, trekking pace. "If the Cooler approached him, Liam is more likely to have informed Roland than give in to blackmail. He wouldn't risk his carrier, not over me, at least."

Stella dug her hands inside her pockets, mimicking his pose. She might be wrong once again. If Colonel Holt couldn't be bothered about his own brother, Gunn really had no one to watch his back. It explained how the General had been able to frame him so easily, why no questions had ever been asked.

"Then my father didn't work with Holt. Maybe he had someone else. I would never have been able to take you out of that camp if Roland knew."

"Maybe," Gunn agreed, with a doubtful look. "Or maybe he's tracing you as we speak."

"If Roland wanted to trace me, he had me right where he wanted me: in his head office. Besides, I was never involved in my father's business. He was notorious for refusing to work with me. I don't mean anything to Roland. And he wouldn't be interested in a Cerna prisoner."

Her mind was spinning, making the connections as she spoke. "We're looking at the situation from the wrong angle. Assuming my father didn't arrest you in Cerna, what would have happened next?"

His eyebrows drew together. "A debriefing, normally. Possibly, an investigation."

"The circuit of the launch codes would have been easy to establish," Stella said. "From Viviani to Colonel Holt, and then to you. But not higher than Viviani. Even if Colonel Holt decided to involve Roland, the only persons able to corroborate his story were a dead general and his own brother."

She was starting to see the General's point, what he'd been trying to tell her all along. For years, she'd taken it the wrong way. Family was a drawback.

"I told you there has to be an escape goat, Brighton," he said.

Indeed. Roland had chosen wisely: Liam Holt was an over-ambitious adrenalin junkie, riding for a fall. Cerna had been Viviani's first command in near a decade. They both had something to win from the war, same as her father, the hero that had ended it in six months. And Gunn, as well, an equally ambitious pilot, eager to climb up the ranks. They were all perfect targets for a set up.

"It's not Holt and you," Stella said, sticking by her guns: Gunn was dead, as far as Roland was concerned. "It's just the Colonel, Viviani, and my father. Who put you in the only place Roland wouldn't have thought to look, and left a trail of evidence behind: forged records, illegal documents with his signature on. It's more than clear that he tried to get rid of you, if anyone cares to look."

He turned to her, face blank, only the reflex movement of his irises giving away his interest. "Where are you going with this?"

"The General was never careless." He couldn't have turned so, once he'd decided to break the law. He'd done it, because the law wasn't enough. Roland had the knowledge and resources to bend it to his ends. "He had no reason to start with you. Unless he wanted to get caught. You really don't see?" Stella locked her eyes on his.

"The game isn't over, Gunn. You're a credible witness now. Against my father, and whomever else you choose to name."

"Right." He set his jaw, looking away from her. "Is this your mission, Brighton? Get me to testify before your goddamn commission? "

Stella sighed. The way he constantly shifted back into hostile mood was a mind-bending exercise in patience. No wonder she was running unsurprisingly low on that particular resource. "I told you I don't have orders, Gunn."

"Brighton -"

"I don't have the orders." Her lips were quivering. She struggled to shape the words, aware that she was taking another wild chance, when chances weren't enough to go around. "I don't know. But I suspect the commission has something to do with everything."

Understanding showed in his eyes. "You're standing by." His voice was laced with contempt. "Good luck with that. I'm not touching anything that Brighton planned."

"Gunn - "

"Yours is just a theory, also," he cut her off, his voice rough with anger. "And it's far-fetched. I can't prove I was on orders. I have no records, and I'm willing to bet none were kept. I'm still a traitor, and a deserter."

"Your wall calls you a Taskforce hero."

"I'm dead." He huffed a long, painful breath, shaking his head in frustration. "It doesn't matter. Liam could have arranged it, to protect his own reputation."

"My father never charged you with anything," Stella countered.

He squared his shoulders, in a defiant stance. "Your father buried me."

"But you're not dead, he is. You want something to fight against? Don't take on a dead man. You didn't program the missile strike. Roland did. He organized a genocide. He obliterated your small nation. 200,000 people, Gunn, 25,000 Taskforce soldiers. If you think about it, there's even something to fight for. "

Gunn listened, watching her intently. Fine concentration lines formed at the corners of his eyes, in a pattern of miniature scars. "You forget I lost the last war I fought."

Stella's heart thumped painfully in the cage of her ribs. "Everyone lost that goddamn Cerna war, Gunn."

"Everyone who fought it, at least." His eyes travelled back to where the broken dish was stabbing through the mist, and then forward, into the distance. "Just where the hell do we go on from here, Brighton? Honestly, Marcus still sounds like an option to me."

Rolling waves swept the beach, drawing the sand back into the sea only to throw it back again in a frothy fit of rage. Nothing easier to feel than despair in the middle of this desolation. He would never acknowledge it, perhaps not even to himself. But she had no doubt it had its claws deep in him.

"Back to the house. You want to learn about the mission, Gunn? We need to talk to Soren."

 


	15. Chapter 15

THE logo of the Northern Taskforce consisted of a dark blue field, charged with a golden, five-pointed star with smooth diagonal rays. A smaller, silver star, was in the centre. The blue was meant to represent the Atlantic. The stars stood for honour, and bravery.

Gunn traced it with his fingers, across the yellow cover of the file. Empty words; but that came in handy when bastards like Roland, or Brighton, or Viviani, needed something to drape themselves into.

After they'd returned from the run, Stella Brighton had locked herself in the kitchen, where Soren had taken, surprisingly, to cooking. The murmur of their voices carried in the empty house, but he hadn't made out the words. She'd walked out some twenty minutes later, shoulders tense, a slight quivering to her lips. She carried a stack of papers, which she placed on the couch, next to him.

Her eyes fell on his hands. He'd showered earlier, and removed the bandages. In plain sight, his damaged knuckles marked out a baseline model of aggression Gunn no longer knew if it was trained, or inherent to him. Either way, the display triggered the odd sense of being something less, another species altogether than Stella Brighton. He was uneasy, and not mistaken about the direction of her gaze. But all she said was,

"It's the mission file."

Gunn scanned the binder - possibly, the same one she'd reviewed with him on the night of his arrival. He'd expected some explanations, not direct, unrestricted access to information. A vigilant part of him sent warning signals. Was the file even genuine? Was it complete? Handing it over to him was the result of an argument between her and Soren. They had opposing views, and she looked like she'd just been given a dressing-down.

"You actually want me to read your secret mission file?"

  
She paused, briefly. "In terms of information, it's like putting bandages on the Titanic. You'll see. But Soren will take your questions."

She was referring him to Soren. His suspicions returned - Stella Brighton didn't have the final word here. Everything about this mission was messed up, including the chain of command.

Gunn leaned against the couch, head tilted back, and pretended to study the cracked ceiling. His muscles had all tensed up, and his temples were pulsing, anticipating a migraine.

"I'd rather talk to you than the police."

  
She laughed. It came out strained. "You'll be doing the interrogation, Gunn. Excuse me, please. I really need a shower."

It was, he supposed, as plausible a pretext as any. Stella Brighton still kept things polite, even if she wasn't fooling anyone. Even if she was, not to put too fine a point on it, a coward.

Unwisely, a vision of her amidst steam and crashing water flashed into his mind, morphing with the memory of his hand earlier, around hers, and the ghost of breath fleeing from her chill-nipped lips in the moment of contact.

Her fingers had been cold and smooth, a touch of silk utterly unsuitable with him. He'd been tempted to make it fit. They could pretend for a while - what did it even matter, when everything, as far as the eye could see, back and forward and around, was nothing but emptiness? But he'd met the burnished steel of her irises, like a shield raised over all her secrets, and he'd snatched his hand away.

He was being a fool. Something about her pushed him right in the middle of the stupid zone - had been, from the moment she'd stepped foot out of that car. Unwilling to grapple with all the implications, Gunn returned grudgingly to the file.

Travel permits to Highwater, issued to Stella K. Brighton, and Soren L. Basile. Surprisingly, Soren's place of birth was listed as Malta. The name didn't exactly go with the place, half Scandinavian, and half Italian? Or Greek, maybe? He wondered, with a flicker of interest, if it was even real, and moved on to his forged Cerna prisoner file.

It was a professional job. He couldn't remember when they'd taken the picture, or why he seemed so belligerent, for all that the perspective was accurate. His memories were muddled, but he'd always imagined the drugs had kicked the fight out of him. Gunn recognized his signature on the contract. He had a vague recollection about being made to sign papers, but he'd only understood what when Stella Brighton had showed them to him.

He kept skimming over the documents, disgusted, until the familiar template caught his eye. The orders were dated February, around the time of his arrest, and signed, as expected, by General Brighton. Cursorily, the mission statement read "key-target extraction". The situation described his legal status as alien resident, with his imprisonment explained away as "protective custody" during the temporary absence of the beneficiary. Gunn snorted with contempt, clutching at the paper. The yellow background and the poor light coloured his fingers ashen.

The execution section was equally telegraphic, with instructions to take custody, ensure target safety, and stand by for new orders. No time schedule or items of equipment were listed.

There was only one other clear task, assigned specifically to Stella Brighton: obtain full target cooperation. He inferred the rest had been, in practical terms, assigned to Soren.

Warning, the orders went on, reluctant target. The wording stuck with him: reluctant, not dangerous; not hostile. Stella Brighton sure placed a lot of faith in daddy. His characterisation of Gunn had obviously overridden what other, more sound conclusions she might have drawn from his actions alone.

For all intents and purposes, Cooler Brighton had gotten her to remove the bracelet, and settled her fears of interacting with him all alone. Gunn had an explanation now, but hardly one that brought him any peace of mind.

Just what the hell had been on Brighton's, though, to depict him as if he were some sort of shy kitten? The General's opinion of him couldn't have been any lower. One look, and Brighton had dismissed him, placing him into the tame toolbox. Not that Gunn had given him any actual trouble, or that he gave an actual dime about what the General thought. He was just shocked to discover how obtuse this supposedly shrewd commander had been.

There was the cooperation part, also. For all that the orders did not require him interrogated or debriefed, Stella Brighton had construed them to mean she was to get the full narrative. Brighton knew it, obviously. He hadn't felt the need to share. So, maybe she wasn't all that ready to confide in the General, after all.

He didn't care to dwell much on the subject. Stella Brighton's daddy issues were the last thing he needed to concern himself with.

The logical step, as she'd already pointed out, was get out of Highwater. Of course, she and Soren couldn't have possibly dragged him away. But if he had the bracelet on, he would've complied. And he already knew she had drugs.

Why did they need him too cooperate?

If she was right, and Cooler Brighton had intended to bring him before the commission, the mission of convincing him should not have gone to the ops sent after him. Field work was mainly about maintaining a cover, and finding those people with access to information, rather than the information itself. He couldn't believe that Brighton was that short on resources, and Stella Brighton seemed confident that more orders were coming. Obviously, someone else had been working with Brighton, and still was.

He looked up from the papers, eyebrows bent in thought. Gunn's orders in Cerna had been all who, what, where and why, expected duration, and specific allocation of tasks. Roland hadn't left one detail to chance. Cooler Brighton's were a complete jumble - the man really did not live up to his reputation as a strategic mastermind. Maybe he'd been in a hurry. Maybe his back had been against the wall, as well.

Outside, grey light sloped down from a low sky. Sighing, Gunn gathered himself up, and went into the kitchen.

As soon as he pushed against the door, the mix of smells wafted out: fish, and stewing, and poor alcohol, all bringing tears to Gunn's eyes. Soren crouched in front of the open oven, stabbing with the butcher knife at whatever was roasting inside. Didn't he know the thing was already dead? He spotted the half-full glass of brandy, forgotten on the table, and scowled. By now, he thought he could place Soren correctly on the hostility and anger scale. Gunn was ready to bet he didn't mix well with alcohol.

He hesitated, as a sudden awareness set it. He didn't know how to talk to Soren, or, at least, in a manner that was not hostile. His entire life, whether at home, with Liam, or in the army, Gunn had functioned within an established chain of command. True, he rebelled, but he was also awake to the boundaries, even as he pushed against them.

Victor and defeated enemy was one perspective, clear enough with or without the bracelet. But the truth, now revealed, placed them both on the very different battlefield of the Taskforce. He would've anticipated difficulties with an op like Soren even if his rank would have been uncontested. As things stood, and with the complications of the mission, the hierarchy was volatile.

He was on shaky ground, here. But whatever else they were, they remained of the Taskforce. DLIPS tone, then. Gunn had but to hope old habits really, really die hard.

"Are you hammered, Soren?"

Soren slammed the metal lid over the crock-pot, snapped the oven door closed, and stared at him. Forget the Brightons and their unwarranted optimism. Much though he hated to admit it, Soren saw straight through him. Gunn was FUBAR, the army had made sure of that. And this man wasn't fooled.

"It takes more than that, trust me. I'm fine."

"Hardly, when your mission is all botched up."

Soren went around the isle, closing the distance between them. "Do I look worried to you?" He didn't look worried. If anything, he seemed riled. "And it's your goddamn mission, too."

Gunn let out a disbelieving laughter. "What, because of the whole cooperation part? You really are drunk."

"Still haven't figured out why the General put you in Highwater?"

Soren straightened up, and rested his hands on his hips, a clear 'don't mess with me' signal. "I thought pilots were supposed to be smart. What if he hadn't, genius? What if he let you return? Roland did under two generals of the Taskforce. Just how do you suppose he would've dealt with you?"

The man was right again. Brighton had threatened with a court martial. If Roland put his mind to it, he probably wouldn't have made it to verdict. But he wasn't ready to admit it. And he was fed up with Soren's holier-than-thou attitude when it came to Brighton.

"Dunno. Like your Saint Brighton dealt with Matko?"

"He would've done the same to you, if he thought you were a traitor on Roland's payroll." Soren's mouth curled in a silent snarl. "But you were just an idiot, and he needed a witness. A living one. So, he did what Brighton did best: he sent you on assignment."

Gunn glared at him, with disdain and dismissal. Nine fucking months in Highwater. Thinking he'd rot in there, stripped of his identity, with the prospect of a black site or an execution squad hanging over him. The scars on his arms, his life spiralling out of his control; that bracelet. All because Roland sought to kill him, and Brighton sought to use him. Soren needed to come up with something way better in order to get under his skin.

"The part where he locked me up and threw away the key was an assignment?"

Soren's expression made his opinion more than clear. A dead rat in the middle of the street would have elicit more respect from him. "Surviving long enough to tell the tale was. Everything was need-to-know with the General. You couldn't have blown your cover, if you bought it, too. And he gave you a pretty good one."

Ice fingers reached inside his brain, intent on squeezing it into fluid. He didn't have to stay here, listening to this crap on a cracker! Gunn backtracked, slammed into the chair, and sent it crashing to the tiled floor. The noise torpedoed through the air, in roaring, deafening crescendos. Brighton's tone of subtle menace cut through.

"Quite a mess you got yourself into, son."

He'd played the day of his arrest over and over in his mind, from every angle; but never this one.

"Nothing permanent. Maybe the cowboy and I will sit down for a talk sometime."

Roland had gotten to Brighton first. If not, he might have had this very conversation with Cooler himself. He couldn't tell how it might have played out. Threaten him into testifying? Bribe him, offering his life back? Persuasion, cruel to be kind? All of the above?

His body shook and vibrated with the clamour, as if he were, once again, in the cabin of his jet. He'd frozen at the controls. He couldn't react. He was drowning on his breath.

A sharp, familiar scent pierced through the stifling kitchen air. Soren pressed a thin cylinder between his fingers. Gunn took it to his lips on autopilot. Smoke filled his lungs, smooth around the rough edges. He blinked it away from his eyes, and met Soren's hard, dark ones.

"Brighton 101," he said. "The first time I saw him, I nearly broke his jaw, and with good reason. He could be a mean bastard, and had this way of looking through people. Made you wonder if you were even there at all. He signed my dispatch order on the spot, on a dirty bar table, but it turned out he wasn't all that bad, because he was going to the frontline, too. He'd assigned me to his goddamn unit. I made it half way to Pakistan, before someone bothered to tell me Brighton had put me in his CPT."

His head was starting to spin. Gunn put down the cigarette, and threw Soren an expectant look.

"When Viviani got KIA, the IJCS put him in charge in a matter of hours. But I think he was already in the cards, set to replace Viviani either way, because he kept his eyes on Cerna. Roland exploded, the ISCJ had gone over his head. I know for a fact he also had a run in with your brother, Colonel Holt. First thing he did after the appointment was summon Rugby and me."

Soren ran a hand over his face. His gaze turned bleak, and tired. "He said one of us was to go with him, and the other, undercover. A safety net, he called it, and said both were equally deadly. We ended up drawing straws. Rugby was in that car with him when the bomb blew off. I worked as a civil contractor, babysitting a general's son and his boyfriend in Fiji over the last two years. When he died, I got a message, and the file. Same as Stella."

The smoke burnt his throat. Could Brighton had planned this even before stepping foot in Cerna? He couldn't have done it without inside information on 'Fire Sky'. Had Gunn ranked among his targets from the start?

"We have to get out of Highwater, and you must work with us. You have - scratch that, you bloody are evidence of treason at the core of the Taskforce. As an officer, you have a responsibility. Face up to it."

"Face up?" Another blast of anger tore through him. "Honour and the Homeland, Soren? A responsibility towards what - this corruption spreading like a cancer? Wake-up call: there's no difference between your Brighton and Roland."

He kicked the fallen chair, enraged, and spun on his heels, facing the other. He didn't know what expression his face carried, how much of his fury and betrayal the mask of flesh managed to convey, but Soren recoiled, with a flicker of panic. Gunn couldn't help the rush of satisfaction. Yes, the man saw through him, and right now, his reference frame dripped cooling balm over his deep tissue, toxic burns. Fear was power, also, and it was intoxicating. He had a better sense now of how Roland or Brighton had gotten hooked on it.

"Do you know why I jumped you in the first place?" His voice was laced with hoarfrost. "I thought you'd be better at it. I didn't expect to win, and I didn't want to be your pawn.

"But as I got my hands on that gun, it occurred to me that it might as well be you. It ended the mission. It buried Brighton's plans along with him. And I would've gotten to watch it, too. Now, you expect me to do his bidding?"

Soren listened, stone-faced, stone-still. "Roland will end Holt," he stated, very slowly, giving Gunn all the time in the world to process his words. "He's all about details. He can't take the risk. Your brother is on borrowed time, and you know it."

He knew it, even if he didn't want to. It's FUBAR, Matko had told him, back in Cerna. If it's not the enemy, then it's friendly fire. You can't win either way, and devil take the hindmost. Matko had died the death of a traitor at Brighton's hand, the man he was supposed to serve under. It was Liam's turn now, with Roland. The system still worked.

Suddenly, Gunn wanted nothing but to laugh. Just stay there, howl, and look like a mad man. He'd nearly killed himself, fighting a goddamn bracelet around his wrist. But there were chains on top of chains shackled to other chains, all wrapped around him so tightly it was a wonder he still managed to breathe. It didn't matter why Brighton had put him in Highwater. He had to work for him. He had no option; he'd been all out of options, from start.

"I do hate that goddamn bastard," he told Soren, with complete honesty. He just wasn't sure which one, exactly, if he'd meant Liam, or Brighton, or Roland, or the three of them.

Whatever Soren made of it, he nodded slowly. "I can relate."

"Who's in charge of Cerna now?"

Soren's eyebrows went up, but he didn't comment. "An Italian. General Albricci. Appointed by the IJCS, but with no objections from Roland."

"He keeps the war going?"

"No progress was reported over this last month. And it won't be, until Roland gets what he wants."

Gunn trained his eyes on the window, at the skeletal clouds sailing across the laden sky. It always rained in this bloody place. It never cleansed anything away. Surely, not the blood on everyone's hands.

"I'm so not OK with this."

"I'm not OK with it, either," Soren said, in a no-nonsense tone of voice. "We're not OK, you and me. The enemy is one thing. But I take serious issue with an officer of the Taskforce pulling a fucking gun on me."

"When some is out to get me, I don't pay particular attention to the flag they fly under," Gunn said, coolly. He did not owe Soren any more explanations. And even if he did, he'd rather not settle that particular debt. Or the one he carried since Cerna, since he'd seen that hole in Matko's skull. It sufficed he'd already admitted to Stella Brighton about how he'd lost it back then. "MP intel ops, trying to pass for civil contractors included."

Soren ran his hands through his hair, and grimaced with disgust. "I wasn't out to get you. I was just in your way. It occurs to me that you and all the brass you rubbed elbows with have some things in common, after all." Then added, as an after-thought, "Squadron Leader Holt." On his lips, the name sounded like an insult.

"When I want your opinion, I'll be sure to ask for it, Sergeant."

"Let's get some things straight." Soren knitted his browns in a deep frown. "You're not my bloody CO. You still don't get to push it. And I'm not calling you sir."

"I do outrank you," Gunn pointed out.

"For the time being, maybe. But this is still my mission."

Silence fell between them, charged, deafening. Gunn couldn't really argue. He'd read the file. Soren was a spiteful bastard, but a correct one: chances were he'd be stripped of his rank, anyway.

"It's Skylight. My callsign. Too young for Squadron Leader, brightest star out there, mission 'Fire Sky' and all that. You get it."

Soren narrowed his eyes at him. Clearly, he hadn't forgotten Gunn telling him he had no call sign. "I'm counting here, but feel free to help me: is every third word you say a lie, or is it the second?"

"What can I say, Taskforce morals," Gunn said, scathingly. The ranks were hardly crowded with heroes. He sure as hell wasn't one, and Soren sure as hell wasn't one to lecture him. "I look up to my betters."

Soren huffed, dismissive. "You're looking for trouble, Skylight. Stop it. And get a grip on those panic attacks."

"Do I look panicked to you? I'm not, Soren. Pissed off as hell, but that's another matter. And you insist on aggravating me. "

"However you call them, snap out of it. 'Cause if you fuck this up, I swear to God, if it kills me, even if they shoot me down where I stand, I won't go out before I break your goddamn neck."

 


	16. Chapter 16

 

  
"Morning," Stella said, lifting her eyes from the plate. "Did you check the news?"

It had to be a little over nine. Rain no longer fell from the sky. It stayed suspended in mid-air, hovering over the dunes and the bellowing ocean. Walls of water slammed against the shore, in a parody of the primeval explosion, mixing hydrogen and oxygen with less innocuous, man-made chemical spilling.

She couldn't bear it any longer. She was drowning in this place.

The last two days had been nerve-wrecking, with the three of them avoiding each other, and the interactions kept to a minimum – not a small feat, while confined in the empty house. They were no longer eating together, which, given the current state of affairs, might have been a blessing in disguise. Stella had chosen to remain in her room. When not compulsively checking the email, Soren was busying himself with the old heating system. Gunn went for runs every morning and evening, and disappeared inside the office for the rest of the day, doing god knew what.

Purportedly, they were working together now. In a parallel dimension, perhaps. Not in this one.

"Morning, miss," Soren said. He poured himself a cup of coffee, doing his best not to look guilty las he eyed her back carefully. "Three different shows about that orgy in the French military base. Huge scandal in Hollywood, sexual harassment claims against Egan Sinclair, the guy from that web show, 'Teacher'. Nothing on the commission, anywhere. Nothing new on the websites, either."

Roland wasn't wasting his time. He was burring the commission with sex scandals and trivia. Stella chased her food around the plate. Last night's leftovers were palatable, but she lacked the appetite. It was baked cod now, morning, noon and evening. Their groceries were running thin, but she had postponed going into town. Maybe it was a bit of magical thinking on her side, hoping that command might move before they starved to death.

"Still no reply message?"

"You'd think I'd mentioned it if there was."

The irony was wasted on her. "They should move faster than this. Hey, is it possible to tell if someone is accessing a public wall, Soren?"

"All activity online is traceable, in theory," Soren said. "It's as simple as putting a tracker on the wall. What do you have in mind?"

"Gunn's profile," Stella said, pressing her lips together in thought. "His very public service wall. Wasn't that a little too easy?"

"Not really. There's a lot of missing soldiers' walls out there, miss," he pointed out.

Stella frowned, stabbing at the food with her fork. Military walls of fallen or missing soldiers were normally preserved, in line with the Homeland's hero cult. But nothing about Gunn's situation came even close to normal; less alone seeing his wall out there, when everything about him was covered in layer after layer of secrets and lies.

"If we were supposed to learn his identity from Gunn, my father must have realized you were bound to check. Maybe he let it there for us. Or maybe someone else is tracking it."

Soren stared at her, lowering his eyebrows. "You mean Roland?"

"He could be on to us. If my father had someone on the inside, I assume our command does, also. It might explain the delay."

"I covered our tracks when I accessed the wall, miss," Soren said, shaking his head. "A lot of things might explain the delay. You know the amount of preparation that goes into each mission. Besides, field assignments aren't as glamourous as people think. Mostly, it's just sitting around, waiting for stuff to happen."

Unconvinced, Stella let it at that. She doubted Soren would trust her enough to tell her if something was wrong, anyway. After their talk the other day, she doubted he trusted her enough to cross the street.

Soren was in the kitchen when she'd returned from the run with Gunn, cooking and paying languid attention to a glass of the awful, local brandy.

"Don't get smashed, Soren. I need you."

"Not planning to." He held the half-filled glass in his hands, and stared long and hard at the drink.

"I'm not gonna like this, miss, will I?"

He was definitely not going to like it. "Gunn thinks he should surrender to Marcus."

"Yeah, well, Gunn's an idiot," Soren said, with a dismissive scowl.

"Sometimes." There was sufficient evidence, and she couldn't exactly argue. She stared at him a long moment, steeling herself. "I think we should tell him about the mission."

Soren knitted his brows in a frown, and forked his fingers through his hair. "There's no other option I see."

"OK." Stella sighed deeply, relieved to discover that they were seeing eye to eye for once. And concerned, because it went a little too easy. "I kind of already told him we would. I'll go get him."

"Or, we could give him the mission brief. He gets to see for himself that we're not hiding anything."

"That's brilliant, actually." Full disclosure – why hadn't the idea occurred to her? "And then we talk to him."

"No, miss." Soren put down the glass, and searched her face with his dark eyes. "I'll do it. I think it's better if you sit this one out."

That confused her. "How come, Soren?"

"Just trust me."

"I trust you." He looked and sounded so certain, but she wasn't intimidated. "Now tell me why."

A muscle twitched dangerously in Soren's jaw. "I don't like the way he looks at you."

"You don't like the way he looks at me?" Her stiff tone warned she was hardly pleased. "That's your reason?"

"No, I don't. Frankly, miss, it's starting to feel a little like Sicily." Delivered in a gritty voice, his words drained the blood from Stella's face. "And you taking off with him for two hours sure as hell doesn't help."

Stella stared at him, more than a little flustered. Sicily had been the summer when she'd turned eighteen. A time spent stranded on a rock, with nothing to do but watch the white blasts of the military exercises, rising columns in the distance, across the Klein-blue of a sea too beautiful for words, and too toxic for life. The General had prohibited her to visit the ruins of the once beautiful cities. They were crawling with predators, many of them of the human variety. New to the General's CPT, Rugby been assigned to see that she complied. 

She didn't exactly remember how it had started. Maybe it had been boredom. Maybe it had to do with the sultry heat. For sure it had to do with circumventing her father's restrictions. But the flirt with the handsome, young corporal had turned shameless, and more serious that either of them originally intended.

Likely, they were headed nowhere fast. But she would have appreciated the chance at the trip, instead of Soren putting an end to things with his shouts and his fists. 

"That was nine years ago. I was a teenager, Soren." This was so absurd! She hadn't taken off with Gunn. They'd just returned together, and she'd used that time to persuade him over the mission. And it'd only been one hour, one and a half at the most. Talk about a new low; and from a man who'd been perfectly fine with objectifying her, if it got them what they needed from Marcus.

She worked hard to smother her anger, and not deliver the kind of reply surely Soren deserved. He was being an idiot, but her throwing flour into the fire couldn't lead to anything good. "But thank you. It's good to learn your actual opinion of me." 

"He's a soldier, miss." Soren held out his hand, counting on his fingers. "Big, bad, dumb as night, and model-pretty, with a shady past, an improbable future, and the Brighton trademark etched deep into his skin. It just sounds a bit closer to home than I'd like. I mean, you're the psychologist here. You can do the math." 

"Oh, can I?" Stella asked, deceptively smooth, refraining at the last moment from pointing out how the same description fitted Soren to the tee. "My brain isn't exactly working right now. Too busy swooning over striking blue eyes, and 6.10 of messed-up handsomeness. There's this water spot on my wall that looks just like a tiny heart, did you know? I'll be in my room, staring at it, and leave the men handle the serious stuff." 

She had backed down. She regretted that decision now, unable to stop wondering if she'd been played. If Soren had used their common history against her, knowing that she would walk away offended. For certain, there were things he wasn't telling her.

She didn't know the details of their conversation. Tight-lipped, Soren had informed her that Gunn accepted, and took the opportunity to share his theory on how the General might have intended Gunn to be part of the mission, but had kept him in the dark to play it safe.

Yet another thing he'd conveniently left out earlier. Stella supposed it was possible. The General might have gathered intel on 'Fire Sky' even before his deployment to Cerna. That high up, everyone spied on everyone all the time. Besides, Soren knew more than she'd ever had about how her father handled his missions. Obviously, he believed the General capable of using Gunn like a pawn. In the dog-eat-dog doctrine of the Taskforce, the end justified the means; even when the means consisted in callous lies, manipulation and abuse. With all the skeletons tumbling from the closet lately, Stella no longer had the power to argue that her father had been better than that. 

But she wasn't over it. She doubted she would be any time soon; or ever, for that matter. And she couldn't shake off the feeling that Soren had somehow strong-armed Gunn into accepting, a course of action that might backfire on them spectacularly.

"Did you and Gunn argue, Soren?"

Soren took a long sip of coffee, buying his time. "I didn't even see him today."

Stella tapped her fingers on the table, a clear warning as they came that playing stupid wasn't cutting it. Soren dragged a hand over his face, and sighed. "No more than usual, OK, miss? I warned him to keep his act straight. I don't exactly trust him, and I don't want him sabotaging us just to get some twisted revenge on the General. He said we don't stand a chance. You heard him yourself."

Yes, he'd said as much. And she'd been hoping he might change his views. Apparently, that was hardly the case. Stella pushed her chair back and stood up, watching Soren stonily. "You're right, you know. It does feel a little like Sicily."

Soren frowned. "You mean Gunn?"

"No, Soren." She chilled her voice even more. "I mean you."

Soren's eyes blazed. "I'm trying to protect you. And pull this through. If you'd take a moment to – "

He cut himself off at the sound of the front door opening. Uneasy, Stella turned her head towards the noise. She couldn't make out footsteps in the hall – as usual, Gunn moved without sound. But he wasn't exactly trying to hide his presence, either. Soren crossed his arms over his chest, his face twisted in a frown. Stella's skin prickled with exasperation. The aggressive, rugged, super-masculine act was really, really getting old.

 _Oh, yes. We're doing this_.

"In here, Gunn," she called out, and turned her head over her shoulder to throw Soren a pointed, challenging look.

_Behave._

 


	17. Chapter 17

Gunn walked in, dressed for running, hair moist – coming or going, she couldn’t tell, all sharp lines and stifled bitterness.

“What, Brighton?”  Behind him, the cold bit its way inside the room. Even his voice hinted at storms and rippled skies.

He annoyed her, Stella decided. Soren annoyed her – had been, for a while now. And this place, this goddamn town, the house, the impossible situation she was in, the oppressing feeling that this was _it_ , a defining time in her life; that what had happened – what was about to happen here would never be undone.

“I’m going to town.”

“You want me to drive you?”

“No, thank you. Yes, Soren,” she added quickly, the very moment when Soren opened his mouth to protest. “Of course. But - no.”  

Stella gathered her backpack. She’d had a mind to go all along, ever since morning, maybe even earlier into the night. It explained her choice of clothes: black synth-leather pants hugging her long legs, and the quality thermo-sweater, the sudden interest she’d taken in her makeup and hair. She just wasn’t sure about how to break it to the two men. That problem, she supposed, had very much worked itself out. Maybe it had to do with them being them; or her, being her.

“Hey,” Gunn called out. “Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Not really.” She smiled, trying to keep it pleasant. “Why, do you?”

Gunn crossed his arms over his chest and glanced at her darkly. “Come on, Brighton.”

“Look.” Exasperated, Stella clasped her palms together. “We need food that’s actually eatable, OK? And I need to see a realtor.  And I really, really could do with a break.”

Soren scowled at her. “A realtor?”

“I’m supposed to do something about the house. It’s hardly fit to live in. I should sell it, or renovate it, or both. As is, it’s entirely out of character.”  She threw Gunn another quick, shrewd glance. “Like you said, I have a pretty good cover here. Shouldn’t I keep it, SL?”

“Sure, Brighton.” He chuckled without joy. “In case no orders come through.”

“Hey,” Soren protested. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Fuck you, Skylight.”

“Yes,” Stella said, not about to let them get to her any more than they’d already had. “Go at each other, why don’t you? Have a field day.”  

It was a lie, she admitted to herself later, in the car. She knew what she was doing: Taking a wild chance, because someone had to trust her, and it sure as hell wasn’t those two. She just wasn’t so certain about the outcome but Stella supposed life pretty much worked that way.

She drove across the town, enjoying the quiet for once, set to buy all the healthy food she could find, and some not-so-healthy bites, and decided the best course of action was not to second guess herself.  

Finding the only realtor in Highwater was unsurprisingly easy. Pretty, practical Chantal Laurent seized control of the discussion with the cold efficiency of a hostile takeover, for all that Stella did her best not to appear hostile. She knew the property, of course, everyone did. No, it would not be easy to sell, particularly in the current state. Yes, it was in dire need of repairs. In fact, repairs were a must.

“I have … agents, Madame Laurent,” Stella told her, in accented French. “People working for me. But if you can recommend a reliable contractor – in particular, one that wouldn’t charge a material down payment, I am open to suggestions.”

“I’ll email you a list,” the woman said, which, according to Stella, translated as ‘ _you’re obviously not helping, so you might as well stay out of my way_.’

“It’s settled, then. And your invoice, Madame Laurent.” She threw the woman her best, helpless smile. “I left my touchscreen at home, I’m afraid, and I would like to check my credit limit. You know, just to set a preliminary budget?”

Alone in the small, quiet office, (Madame Laurent, naturally, was one for privacy, at least in as much as officially allowed), Stella took a moment to stare at the black screen.

All activity online was traceable, but Soren had covered their tracks before. She couldn’t shake off the conviction that the General would expect her to check, even if it meant someone else might be tracing them as well.

Her fingers slid across the virtual keys. Stella went through the screens – her wall, and then another, the flow of blood quickening under her skin like a bitter-sweet song of victory. They’d been playing it safe, and they were epically stuck. Even Soren couldn’t argue against that.

She supposed safe was off the window now.

The man in front of her didn’t wear the deep, haunted look she’d seen on him earlier. He was younger, carefree, striking in his pilot gear, and, for all accounts and purposes, dead. A dead hero, _sans_ the body bag to match, who’d spent the morning frowning at her.

“Sorry,” Stella said, and placed a small, teary emoticon on the wall. But really, she wasn’t sorry at all. Just goddamn, bloody scared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, it's been a while. Really, this small part should have been included in the previous chapter; but somehow I never got around to it. 
> 
> I want to thank you for taking the time to read - and to the people that left kudos on this work!


	18. Chapter 18

"Self-righteous little brat," Soren muttered, as soon as the sound of the departing engine thundered in the silence of the empty beach.  

Gunn turned to him with murder in his eyes.    

"What the hell just happened?"  

"Me," Soren said, with a shrug that was meant to signal defeat. "Something I should've handled better. It doesn't have anything to do with anything. It's between me and her." 

"I thought we were done playing games." Speaking pulled at the muscles in his face and jawline, and Gunn realized how tight he'd been clenching his teeth. Anger that had been simmering all along, under the exhaustion of the morning run and the constant effort of finding his footing on the ever-shifting sands he'd been walking across since the day he'd first laid eye on that goddamn army car, filled him. "I'm asking you for the last time: What. The hell. Was that?" 

 A layer of confusion fogged over Soren's already grim face.   

"Paranoid much, Cerna? What part of 'private' don't you understand? She's not the first woman to storm out of an argument."   

"Stormed out? Stella Brighton, the ice queen? Who doesn't take a breath that hasn't been planned two weeks in advance?"   

She would never storm out of an argument. Withdraw, maybe, with measured, proud steps, like an offended queen or a prowling cat.  He watched closely as Soren's expression shifted from shock to borderline desperate. "Wait. Soren, are you trying to play me here, or have  _you_  just been played?"  

"Shit!"  

"Hey! Hey," he snapped, grabbing hold of Soren's arm to stop him just as he gave to storm through the door. "It's too late. She's gone. No way you beat her into town. And if you go now, all covered in bruises and with no idea what you might be stepping into, it might do more bad than good. Think."  

"You're right." Soren shook his arm free and seemed to struggle to get a full breath. Then he glared at him. "So, you stood there doing nothing because you thought this was some conspiracy against you? Bloody motherfucking idiot!" 

"Watch it!" Gunn's nostrils flared. Soren snapped his head back and forth, exasperated.  

"Not you, Cerna. Me, all right? Me. It's all on me this time around. You're just being … you." 

The explanation somehow stirred the whirlwind of anger inside him. This whole thing was bloody hopeless. He did not need all the complications - and for what? If by some miracle he made it out of Highwater, what then? There was no possible future he could think of that didn’t involve a body bag.  

 _Fuck, why do I even care?_  

But he did. It was crazy, absurd, but the thought of Stella Brighton walking all alone in the lair of the beast that was the Taskforce weighed heavily on him. Maybe it was all the training, the military code of belief that had been drilled into him, pressing him to prove himself in every single fight, even this disaster of an assignment he'd been strong-armed into. Or maybe some lingering trace of humanity. Or Stella Brighton, simply being her. 

"I assume she lied earlier; about food and that realtor thing."  

"No, she'll get food. And the realtor may be true," Soren said, and rubbed a hand over his eyes. "It was something we'd talked about, part of our cover. She told Marcus when we first arrived that she was looking to liquidate the General estate. That means the house, and, you know - " 

"Me," Gunn cut him off, annoyed with the other's hesitation, since that elephant had been in the room all along. "I get it. And what did you two argue about?"  

"That really was personal, Cerna. An old story going back ten years. She reacted just like she would back then, and I bought it." He sounded honest and underlined his words with a worried frown that somehow managed to irritate Gunn further. "I guess I forgot she's all grown up." 

Yeah, no contest. He could hardly imagine Stella Brighton going ten years back but he had no trouble imagining all the right ways in which she'd grown up  – yet another topic he wasn't comfortable on dwelling.  He glared at Soren.

"She did not argue with  _me_."   

"You know how she gets," Soren said, with a shrug, and a look of surprise hidden in the depth of his black eyes.   

No, how does she get, Gunn wanted to retort, but the man was right, he already knew. She'd drawn him into this mess but fact remained she did not trust him; not even now, when it was down to either her side or Roland. It was stupid of him to expect that she might, when she'd chosen to leave even Soren in the dark. But it still stung – and surely more than it should.  

So, maybe she hadn't lied; just chosen to leave some things out. Like why she wanted so much to go into town all alone, even at the risk at having the two of them at each other's throats.    

"What else did she say, Soren?"  

"She was worried about the commission that wasn't moving forward. And the mission. That it's taking too long. And that Roland might be on to us." The man's dark eyes flared. "She might do something to speed things up. Sell this place, maybe, for whatever she can get, probably nothing at all. Then we'd have to move out of here; there'd be no reason to stay. If we move, it might draw command out."  

"You cannot sell real estate in one day," Gunn pointed out. "Consider the technicalities." 

"Fuck my life then." Soren collapsed into the grey chair and sighed, shaking his head. Then he suddenly leaned forward, a focused, urgent expression on his face. "There's something else she might be able to do in town. Pass me the touchscreen." 

Gunn reached for the touchscreen that laid forgotten on top of the counter but shook his head in denial. If Stella Brighton sought to communicate with the outer world it made far more sense for her to carry it along than leave it behind. "She knows connections in town aren't safe."  

"That's what I'm afraid of." Soren studied the device, inputting commands on the onscreen keyboard. He tapped on a few apps, dragged some others around and after what must have been the longest half-hour in Gunn’s life, he finally lifted his head to stare into nothing. His face was frozen, empty of blood.  

"Beats me how but she accessed your wall from town," he announced. "We're royally fucked here, Cerna. She just blew our cover."   

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smaller chapters for now but at least I'm writing again. I have no idea if - or how many people are reading this. Will you let me know, pretty please with a cherry?  
> P.


	19. Chapter 19

Stella parked the car in the middle of the alley and grabbed the large paper bag from the back, struggling for a full breath as she cut across the sand towards the house. The ocean air was dripping with moisture, surrounding her like a huge, briny sponge: Soaked with more water than it could hold, it matched the level of her enthusiasm. 

She spotted Gunn, seated cross-legged on the stairs. Dressed only in his sweater despite the weather, he cocked his head to scrutinise her, shoulders tense and a look to him that was part confusion and part challenge. But mostly the latter, bringing a wave of heat to Stella’s face and a sinking feeling inside her chest. She had some confessions to make, and for all the hard work she’d put into establishing a connection with this man, had to face the genuine possibility of losing his modicum of trust.  

“Hey. Wow. You’re in one piece. And Soren?” 

He nodded vaguely in the direction of the house. “Alive.” His voice was too mild, not matching his expression in the least, and that worried her. “Presumably. He’s been chasing down ibuprofen with brandy all morning.” 

“Did you two have another fight?”  

“Negative,” he said with the same deceptive calmness. “He actually agreed it won’t be me to screw up his precious mission.”  

He must have seen her wince, because he paused and kept watching her in silence, his display mood settled firmly on frozen. Stella choked down the lump in her throat as realisation set in. Gunn and Soren had put two and two together. In a way, it was a relief: She had to deal with the fallout, obviously, but not actually drop the bomb on the two of them.

“You figured it out.” 

“Eventually.” He curled his lips into a humourless grin. “You blindsided us, Brighton style. I think your father would be proud.”   

“Look, Gunn.” Seeking to win time, she slowly put the bag down, and walked to sit next to him on the stairs. She pretended not to notice his discomfort, the way his body shifted away at an almost imperceptible angle just as he tilted his head towards her defiantly. He was battle ready, his mind already made, and had the vantage point of having selected the battlefield, posted like a sentinel in her double-dealing way. She wouldn’t be surprised if he had a gun tucked somewhere, under his ugly, shapeless aviator sweater, loaded and pointed in her direction. But escalating things served no purpose here, so she stifled the surge of defensiveness inside her.

“I am an analyst. I have a bachelor degree in intelligence, one in psychology, and my field of expertise, the one I have the strongest familiarity with, and that I’ve been studying for over 20 years, happens to be General Kevin Brighton. Who’d ordered me to obtain your collaboration. So, my assessment is he expected confirmation – also from me. I wasn't sure how to do it, until we happened upon your profile. But when we accessed it, Soren hid our identity. And then we got stuck. I tried telling him. Even this morning, only he’s too stubborn to listen.” 

A clenched jaw was his only reaction. “And when exactly did you try telling me, Brighton?”  

 _You’ve got to be kidding me._ She shot him an incredulous look. With the way he’d been, avoiding her for days and acting like he couldn’t care any less?

“My mistake. I wasn’t aware you’re available for brainstorming.” 

“No? I did ask this morning.” His tone was clipped. “You did feed me a pack of lies.” 

Stella pressed her lips together, fighting the impulse to lash out at him. He had asked this morning. In Soren’s presence, and she couldn’t have Soren find out. Her gaze swept the shoreline, miles of sand and granite exposed by the withdrawing waters, and of empty skies.   

“I don’t have to run everything by you, Gunn. You’re not my CO.”  

“Nope.” He gave her a withering look and pushed to his feet, reaching for the groceries bag in one swift, angry move. “If I were, you’d be in handcuffs by now.”   

Stella shrank back involuntarily, expecting him to unleash his obvious anger, but he broke away, arms wrapped so tightly around the paper bag she thought it might just break, and turned towards the house. Hoping not to look as desperate as she suddenly felt, Sella gathered herself up and cut his way.   

“I did not endanger the mission. I listed this house and your contract for sale, and if worse comes to worst, I’ll tell them you claimed to be an officer of the Taskforce but I wasn’t convinced by a social account anyone could’ve faked. Your papers trump your allegations, and I need the money. I know it’s maybe identity fraud, and even harbouring a deserter if they don’t buy it.  But at least it’s not treason. It is as good a cover as we can get under the circumstances, for all of us.”  

“It does go with the whole... spoiled brat thing.” His icy gaze bore into her. “Please move over, Brighton.”  

She held her ground, squaring her shoulders, her chest raising and falling faster. “Why are you so angry over a mission you claim not to care about?”  

He drew in a deep breath, and his mouth turned sour. “Maybe I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”  

“How do you even come up with pearls like that? I don’t think that at all.” 

“So, you don’t tell me only what you need in order to control me?”  

“Of course not.” The wind cut through her. Or maybe a misplaced sense of guilt, because she could think of a few occasions when of course, yes. Stella pushed soggy locks away from her face and looked him square in the eye. “If I’d told you, you would’ve stopped me.”  

“Darling,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You know me so well.”   

Her face went slack for a second. She didn’t, not really; but she was so used with Soren and her father, and all those people around her that looked at her and only saw the … spoiled brat thing that she’d assumed it explained part of Gunn’s reluctance to trust her. Maybe it wasn’t the case at all. Not from the man who had taken one first look at her and had only seen an intelligence op. Until now, it hadn't even occurred to her. 

“I only did what I had to do. I’m sorry if you think I handled it wrong. But I’m not apologising for my professional judgment.” She reached out on impulse, wrapping tentative fingers around his arm. She could feel the heat of him against the tips of her fingers, like a cold burn. “I had orders, Gunn. You of all people should understand.”  

He shook his arm free of her hold, not aggressive but definitely not gentle, either. “Whatever, Brighton.” Then he cut to the left around her and went up the stairs, one step at the time, body set in a rigid, straight line.  

A crushing weight settled on her chest. So, this was Gunn, ripping her a new one. She couldn’t imagine things going any better with Soren, if only considering his views on cuffs and radiators and the proper way to handle this mission. Frustration rippled all through her as she watched Gunn walking away. Then, just as he reached the top of the stairs, the door opened. Soren appeared on the threshold, and Stella’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of his ashen face.  

“Good, you’re back,” he said, rubbing a hand through his short hair. “Inside, now. We’ve got mail.”  

 


	20. Chapter 20

“So, that’s it?”

  
Soren dragged his eyes away from the screen to stare at Stella Brighton like it pained him. That was it: not a single word. Only a set of numbers, decimal degrees, imaginary lines converging at the Earth’s poles. The instructions they’d received less than one hour after she had accessed Gunn’s profile appeared to raise more questions instead of providing answers.

  
“Yes, miss, that’s it. In the middle of the goddamn Atlantic. You were right, I guess, and I was wrong – but where the hell do we take it from here?”

  
“Could you repeat the part about how I’m right and you’re wrong?” Stella Brighton asked, voice heavy on sarcasm. “I kind of like the way it sounds.”

  
From his place on the grey chair, where he busied himself with pealing an orange, Gunn stared at her from under bent eyebrows – and saw straight to her act. Her hand had been ghosting over the base of her neck and she’d kept her lips firmly pressed together as Soren had located the coordinates on the map. Even the smile stretching her glossy lips and that she wanted arrogant was lopsided.

  
“How about the part where I warned you this mission doesn’t come with free passes, miss?”

  
She threw a quick glance in Gunn’s direction, which he chose to ignore, whatever she meant by it. He was still burning with rage, the kind that pushed him towards dark thoughts and darker actions; including towards himself. For the time being, he preferred to keep his distance and process.

  
The last few days, with their revelations, rewrote his entire understanding of the last two years in a way that rendered his experiences, and all the injustice done to him, almost irrelevant. Adding insult to injury, the claustrophobic sense of uncertainty triggered by the wait nearly drove him out of his mind. As he struggled to find his footing, the only conclusion he’d reached was how fed up he was with being everyone’s pawn, even now when he was suddenly able to grasp the full picture.

  
Maybe his bleak mood explained why he experienced so much betrayal over being lied to by a woman he’d expected would lie to him all along.

  
From the very first moment she’d struck him as strong and confident, dangerous if not necessarily experienced. He wasn’t buying into the little unsecure act, where Soren and him would automatically challenge her ‘professional opinion’, and couldn’t imagine what had prompted the stunt she’d pulled, aside from the fact that intelligence ops usually worked the same way: Breaking trust, ready to cheat a kid out of a candy bar if it goddamn served their purpose.

  
It was Matko, all over again, not that he hadn’t anticipated it. But he’d always thought it’d be Soren, and that he would care, of course, but wouldn’t care _care_. The more grating coming from her, especially since, should she had chosen to open her mouth and have a goddamn conversation with him, he might even have agreed the risk was worth taking – anything to break this goddamn holding pattern that had him running in circles with no place to land.

  
“Fine,” she said, biting into her lips, not even bothering to hide her disappointment as her gaze fell away from his. “I assumed once I confirmed the benchmark, we’ll get travel permits out of here. Obviously, I was wrong. Also, obviously, those coordinates mark a meeting point. So, my best guess is that’s where we need to take it.” She jumped on her feet and took to pacing the room. “It’s in the middle of the ocean, but there’s a harbour in the village and there’s fishing boats. I guess we’ll have to get on one. Somehow.”

  
Gunn found himself thorn between his resentment and a strange feeling that still prompted him to show her some basic human courtesy. Inertia won, and he settled on watching her, first, because he couldn’t recall ever seeing her that nervous, and he couldn’t stifle a sense of bitter satisfaction; second, because today she was quite the sight. He’d not imagined Stella Brighton as the leather-type girl but on her it looked different, soft and sporty and flattering. With make-up, her eyes seemed warmer and brighter, and he couldn’t get over the spike of pain in his chest when he’d seen her walk out the door this morning and he’d thought she might have been headed to see Marcus.

  
The captain was an idiot, and, given what he’d witnessed at the camp, Gunn had kept waiting for him to try and contact her; but even Marcus must have figured out Stella Brighton was labelled “danger” more clearly than a toxic container, and that it suited him better to keep his distance. Apparently, the same could not be said about Gunn, who had only gotten what he deserved.

  
“Do you know any fishermen by any chance?” Soren snapped, clenching and unclenching his fist in an obvious attempt to control his temper. “Never mind. Say we manage to bribe one of them to take us to sea. No fishing boat can leave controlled space without a permit, not without raising alarms. And once that happens, there’d be at least twenty other boats to come after us. Not to mention they move at the speed of a bunch of drunken old ladies!”

  
“We could steal one.”

  
“Any idea how to sail a boat? On rough sea and with gale force wind? While being chased by half the Taskforce his part of the continent? Frankly, winched from one of those rust buckets straight into the damn English Channel isn’t my first choice when it comes to checkin’ out, miss.”

  
“Kidnap one of the skippers,” she pressed on, speaking quickly, as though if she didn’t hurry she risked to forget the very mechanics of speech. “Sabotage the other boats. Burn down the harbour if we have to. There has to be a way. You’re a field op. You figure it out.”

  
“How about I burn down the whole village?” Soren stared up at her, face dark; and sounding almost as if he was trying to reason with a difficult child. "I don’t have a problem with it – but me and what army, huh? How long would it take to have the MPs on our tail? Face it. This assignment was a virtual nil chance from the start.”

  
“No.”

  
“It’s over, miss.”

  
She opened her mouth, as if to reply, but then changed her mind and turned to him instead.

  
“You think it’s over, too?”

  
The drop of eyeshadow borrowed her wide irises a dewy, metallic shine but despite the defiant stare she looked suddenly small and more than a little lost. The slice of orange tasted bitter on the tip of his tongue. Gunn let it fall on top of the table. What the hell had possessed with him, anyway, to lie over such a petty thing? He craved fresh fruit, had been for ages; but he shouldn’t have asked for the damn oranges when he couldn’t stand the sight of them.

  
“I think we reached decision high,” he said, staring stubbornly at the crushed piece of fruit and away from her. Whether it was guily trip or manipulation that had prompted her to buy them, she’d wanted to play in the big boy’s league. No room for human courtesy here.

 “You know what it is? Sometimes you fly, and the conditions are so bad there’s no visual references. You go through the moves for a while until a certain point is when you must decide whether to abort or continue, but only relay on instruments.”

  
She half-turned on her heels, much like a cat ready to retaliate against a source of aggravation. “I don’t get aviation metaphors, Gunn.”

  
“We abort, miss,” Soren said. Quietly. Defeated. “It cannot be done.”

  
Gunn leaned back against the chair, and released a brief, humourless laughter. Curse him to hell, and Cooler Brighton, too, and the rest of the world that couldn’t cut him a fucking break.

  
“The two of you can’t,” he said, taking in their shocked expressions with a renewed sense of schadenfreude. “But I can. I’m the instrument here, Brighton.”

  
Soren’s jaw went slack. “You can sail a boat?”

  
“I could. Maybe. I don’t know. I never tried. And the fun part is, I don’t have to. You know why, Soren? Because I can fly an army hello.”

  
He’d thought the man looked stupid before. He really had no idea.

  
“There’s an army hello?”

  
“Oh, god.” Stella Brighton covered her mouth with her hand. “There is. By the police station, in perfect condition. I saw it, and thought it was stupid, a frivolous expense, because really, a brand new hello? Oh my god. We were never meant to sail a boat.” Her voice took on a higher, excited note.

“You got picked up, Gunn but I did not arrange it. We ended up in the station, and saw it. We did get a free pass, Soren. It was all set – by my father, and how did I not see it before?”

  
“That’s the wrong question,” Gunn said.

  
It was good she’d put two and two together. He’d figured it out once he’d seen the set of coordinates provided to them, a triplet of two horizontals and one vertical. But everything came at a price. Like most Taskforce officers, Gunn had quickly understood the inherent truth about the workings of the world. Generation after generation had built their lives around the falsehood that it was run by money. And then, by information. They’d indulged in dark fantasies about greedy companies and global government and brainwashing.

History was more than enough proof that armies ran societies – they had always had. It all amounted to force and fear: Nothing better than start a war to relieve everyone of their civil rights. So, it was way simpler than any cyberpunk illusion: all it took to stop information at source or bring any company to their knees was a man with a gun. And right now, he was finally the one holding it.

  
“Sorry, Brighton but the right question here is: what would it take for me to fly the hello for you?”

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMEAC is a style of organizing information about a military situation and the acronym means: "S" Situation, "M" Mission, "E" Execution, "A" Administration/Logistics, "C" Command/Signal.

“Are you blackmailing us?”  

"For God’s sake, Soren,” Gunn snapped, because really, paranoid much? “I’m trying to figure out the SMEAC.” 

“Okay,” Soren said, holding out his hands in surrender. “All right.” He sounded utterly unconvinced. “Why the fuck do we need the SMEAC for, Cerna?”  

“It’s a military situation.” His eyes flickered from Soren to Stella Brighton, who waited very still, arms still wrapped around her body, and back again. “Meaning the monumental trip-up that you like to call a black op is over. And, unless one of you has any experience handling military ops, we do this one my way.”  

He was surprised to discover just how much he  _wanted_  to do it. People out there knew he was alive. Someone here, in Highwater, had taken care to arrange his little visit to the police station.  His service wall was being supervised. With so many people involved, the risk of being discovered increased considerably. The cover Stella Brighton had come up with was a poor one, easily broken if any of those involved in the conspiracy ended up in an interrogation room. Not that that Brighton’s plans were any better, at least, not as far as he was concerned. So, then, the only certainty he had about his future was that it wasn’t a bright one. The system was designed so that he could not win. But he was no longer nineteen. He might crash and burn, but he could still fight. And he could still fly, even if it was for one last time.  

“Yes,” Stella Brighton said. She moved and walked to stand by his side. “You’re right. We do it your way.”  

“Totally,” Soren said, if darkly. “Yeah.”  

Gunn’s eyebrows shot up. “What, that easy?” 

“We got the memo already, Cerna.” Soren huffed and rested his head on his hand. “Like, back when I told you it’s your mission, too.”  

“Well,” Gunn said, with a shrug. He wasn’t about to seek a gift horse in the mouth. "Sit down, Brighton,” he added, because she’d remained frozen by his side, and, while the idea held some appeal, he couldn’t stand her breathing down his neck right about now. She took the other chair and he tilted his head, measuring her up. “Can you fire a gun?”  

“I sure can hold it and look pretty,” she said, oh-so-sweetly. “I’m an army brat, with intelligence training. You tell me.”  

“At  _people_?”  

She raised her eyebrows at him. “I am tempted.” 

“I counted two patrol cars at the police station. Meaning, eight MPs, give or take, plus your friend, the captain. Average age around 20. Taskforce soldiers that we might have to take out to reach end state. If you think it’s a game, Brighton, feel free to walk away now.”     

Her eyes dropped from his, and blood surged to her face. “I really don’t know, Gunn. I never had to.”  

He decided to leave it at that. Maybe it was better, not getting blood on her hands as well, when the entire damn ocean wasn’t enough to wash his.

“How many guns do you pack, Soren?” 

“I have permit for two army issued 9-mils.” 

“So, two?” 

Soren grinned at him. “Did I say that? I didn’t say that, Cerna.” 

“Okay.” Gunn sighed and leaned back against his chair, bringing his arms up to cross them under his head. He could already sense a migraine blossoming in his temples, the kind that wasn’t about to turn into a pretty flower. “This doesn’t work. I’m not sitting here, pulling teeth. The two of you are bright enough to understand what is and what is not relevant to share. I am done playing games. It’s all cards on the table, or I walk.”  

Stella Brighton’s hand brushed the guard's arm. “Soren?”  

“There’s an extra  _‘2020’_.” Soren ran his fingers through his short hair but the look in his eyes was nasty. “3D-printed metal assault rifle, and ammo. I’ll start putting it together. But I've only got 19 bullets.”  

“Not bad.” Illegal as hell but Gunn had to admit he was impressed. “That helo is very much your basic Wildcat. Utility, search and rescue, should withstand gale-force winds. I never landed on a moving ship and I suppose that’s where we’d be landing; but I got some epic scores in the simulators. And if Soren has my back, I’m ready to storm that police station.”  

The most efficient approach he could think of was get inside and go full force. The risk being someone got to push the panic button, bringing half the Taskforce in the prison camp on their back. But with some luck, by the time they made it into town, they’d be up in the air. “That’s about all I can do. Also, I’ll need ibuprofen. And caffeine.” Lots of both: Headaches aside, his arm still hurt, especially in this weather, and he was aware his mobility was somewhat impaired. That couldn’t be helped; but at least he wouldn’t have to feel it.  

“There’s one more thing bothering me. There’s no ETA. Nothing in the message about when we’re supposed to meet.  

Soren coughed, as though to clear his voice. “Actually, I think I figured that one out.” He reached inside his pocket, and took something out. “Don’t get angry, miss.”  

The bracelet he’d taken off Gunn landed on the table top, the familiar flickering lights now extinguished and the signal blocked on red. “You said get rid of it but I thought it might come useful. The General always planned every little detail.”  

Gunn’s jaw clenched. The bracelet was the last thing he needed to see, or carry around his wrist, because let’s face it, he was the target here, and there was little doubt as to where it was going. But Soren was right. It was, after all, a tracking device.  

“Any more secrets I should know of?”  

Soren shook his head unapologetically. “Nope.” 

Gunn stole a glance at Stella Brighton, who was quietly studying her hands, crossed in her lap. Somehow, he doubted that very, very much. She must have felt his eyes on her, because she lifted her head and grinned.  

“All right, then, gentlemen. How exactly does one steal a Taskforce helicopter?”  


	22. Chapter 22

_“Private business secrecy laws severely violated public trust. By limiting access to public information, they barred all forms of public scrutiny into business deals closely connected with the public sector._ ” 

Gunn sighed, and let his head fall against the back of the couch, squeezing his eyes shot. Alone in the living room, dark except for the filtered, bluish light of the touchscreen, he unsuceasfully tried to shift his focus from the humming in his temples, the place where his migraines always started.

After having spent the last few hours arguing over the details of the “how to steal a Taskforce helo” side mission, Soren had let the Bullshit Channel on, because he’d deemed giving the impression they were still watching safer. It streamed a documentary on secret dealings and the military coup against ‘big business’ and the scholar explaining things on screen, a graceful middle-aged woman that hid striking hazel eyes under a pair of thin glasses hardly managed to capture his attention.  

“ _States of the 21_ _st_ _centuries had in fact turned into little more than start-ups ran by presidents or governments acting as board of directors, with courts of audit as supervisory boards, and the police acting as corporate security, all with the interest of the shareholders in mind. And the shareholders were never the people of the Western World. They were the handful of individuals concentrating global economic power to such extent that they not only influenced elected governments but the actual election process_.   _The whole system was designed around the_ _illusion of freedom, or better yet, of choice, wrapped in veil after veil of corporate secrecy._ _”_  

He’d never been interested in the workings of society in the early 21st century, or the chain of events that had shaped the world the way it was. Gunn was aware of contesters out there, libtards or even conspiracy theorists, but up until Cerna he’d never stopped to consider it may be any different. He was, distinctions aside, just a soldier from a low-income soldier family. In his small California town, everyone worked for the military base, one way or the other, and it made sense for the army to have full control of everything. 

“ _’Big Business’ controlled media, because they owned that media, or its access to money, which resulted in fake news, biased news or no news at all. And they controlled public budgets. Discretionary tax deals, tax cuts and tax rulings enabled “big business” to avoid any type of liability for what basically amounted to tax fraud. Of course, such instruments were never available to ordinary citizens or ordinary businesses. It all amounted to conflict of interest, nepotism and corruption, all to the benefit of an ultra-minority that appropriated public services – health, pension, resources, and intended to also privatize defence. And that was the final straw, the moment when the military stepped in._ ”  

Of course, his perspective had shifted drastically over the last two years: The acclaimed social revolution of the 22nd century had only managed to replace one form of corrupt bureaucracy with the equally corrupt one of the Taskforce. And no amount of propaganda would manage to convince him which was worse. But Gunn let the touchscreen run, if merely as background noise. For all that it didn’t manage to silence his mind, it masked at least the whoosh of wind-driven rain washing over the beach. 

“I’m going in first,” Soren had announced, in a no-nonsense tone of voice.  

Gunn’s head whipped around. “The hell you are. It’s my call, Soren.”  

“Affirmative, asshole,” Soren retorted. “Your call, your way. But just because it’s gonna be all friendly fire in there, doesn’t mean it’s not gonna get kinetic. And if you go in and get yourself TU, the mission is over. Done with. So, I go first,  _because_  it’s your goddamn call.”  

Gunn was sure his jaw had gone slack. Then he seemed to recover his grudging self. “Is this your way of saying you got my six?”  

“You’re command this time around.” Soren’s face twisted in a grimace. “Not saying I’m thrilled. Just saying I kinda gotta get your goddamn six.” 

“Hey,” Gunn told him. “If I’m command, then it’s 'asshole,  _sir'_.”  

Soren literally flipped him off.  “Yeah, that part about you not pushing it? Still shit hot.”  

Roger that. He was pushing it, of course. But then again, so was this whole goddamn mess. With his craving for action and the rush that came with not being so goddamn powerless for once, he’d confronted Stella Brighton, but hadn’t stopped to consider what going blue on blue meant for him.  

Here he was, about to put bullets through Taskforce soldiers, the same ones that had only been doing their duty when they’d taken him into custody the other week. Not what he’d signed up for, and hardly something he could foresee going anywhere but downhill, even if they made it to the extraction point.  

His fingers curled into fists, digging into the flesh of his palm. It was how it was, ultimately what needed to be done in the name of a highly debatable 'greater good', and he was a soldier about to fight, which was and had always been his job. With each passing day, Gunn was wondering more and more if any army consisted in more than one man, if Matko hadn’t been right, after all, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel much about that thought.  

“Are you okay?”  

Stella Brighton stopped in front of the couch, and reached out to pause the touchscreen, studying him from the corner of her eye. He kept his eyes stubbornly on the ceiling.  

“Just peachy.”  

“Will you please look at me? “ 

He did, though reluctantly. 

“No,” she stated, worrying her lower lip. “You’re not.” 

“Fine, I’m not,” he said, heavy on the sarcasm. She kept watching him, eyebrows drawn together over her annoying Brighton glare. “Is there anything else?” 

“I brought food from town. Real artificial burgers. Soren says it takes real guts. And oh – don’t forget about the oranges. Are you in?”  

“I was stuck one winter in Cerna, with no supplies coming our way and only oranges and sour bread for almost two weeks. I’m all sworn off oranges.” Her frown deepened, and he felt compelled to ad, “You know, sorry about that. I’m not that hungry either. I think I’m gonna rank out.”  

She shook her head, and perched on the arm of the couch, planting her feet on the ground and her hands on top her knees, readier to spring into action rather than sit and rest.  

“Just talk to me, Gunn.”  

“Why?” He held her eyes sternly. “You need to know I won’t put you in a ditch? I can’t promise you that, Brighton. Not this time around.”  

She watched him back, lips slightly parted, eyes set wide under her still-arched eyebrows, and tapped her feet against the floor. 

“Because I’m a total waste of air.” 

That was unexpected; even more so from the woman who'd pretty much singlehandedly moved the mission forward and vehemently defended her choices. “What?”  

“On this helicopter job. I … played with the gun, a little. Soren gave it to me, but he won’t let me practice. Saving ammo. I think I can still hit a target. But a moving one, people that -" 

He cut her off. “You don’t have to, Brighton.” 

“No, I’ll do it." A humourless smile stretched her lips, and she tapped her feet again with another burst of nervous energy. "I'm on a steep learning curve lately. Still, it’s a definite maybe.”  

“You really don’t have to. Look, it's basic infantry tactics: one team advances, the other covers. And then, rotate. Soren and I have done it before, and can pull it through." They were meat eaters, after all, all too familiar with missions that focused on violence, and she – well, maybe she was a carnivore, too, only of another species, entirely different from his.  

"Don't tell me you couldn't use another gun."  

"I sure could use another gun. But I work with what I have. No one can control everything on field, Brighton. Not even overachieving intelligence ops."  _Brilliant_ _, overachieving, Brighton-trained intelligence ops. "_ Live with that."   

A tinge of red marred her face. "It's not about control." 

"Isn't it?" 

She shook her head firmly. "I'm not even an intelligence op. I'm just an analyst, Gunn, and only because of the way I happened to be born. It's not what I want. I wanted to be a handler, and that means filed action, as well. You and Soren can do it. Obviously, not me. So, maybe they were right about me all along."  

He couldn't believe his ears. Was she comparing herself against two washed-up soldiers, and thought she didn't measure up? But she seemed so helpless and disappointed, and he hated that look on her. It didn't suit the woman who had pulled the stunt with Marcus,and the one earlier today, not to mention playing the two of them and especially, Gunn, until she'd gotten her way. So, maybe it wasn't them that she measured up against at all. Maybe it was daddy, all over again. The man sure seemed to spoil everything he touched.   

"You know, Brighton, this is one hell of a time to consider your carrier path."  

Her answering laughter was sudden and, for once, unguarded, if a little breathy.  She threw her head back, in an explosion of honey-shaded curls, and he couldn't stop the corners of his lips from pulling up. As her breath came faster, he could see her pulse bounding, like a living thing under her skin, strugglingbto break free. Something stuck in his throat, and he coughed, trying to breathe through it. She waved her hand, and then held it up, shaking her head, face all flashed.  

"I'm losing it." 

His eyes remained glued on her neck. "Join to the club. We’ll have a blast." 

She leaned back, still giggling, and froze there a moment, her light body stretched and balanced on the edge, much like a jungle cat before pouncing. He wondered, for the briefest of moments, whether back or forward, and, just as he decided he could never seem to tell what was going through her mind, she leaned forward, wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to his.  


	23. Chapter 23

“Shh,” she uttered between muffled giggles. They stumbled into the backroom, arms wrapped around each other, and Gunn stifled his laughter as he stooped under the low ceiling beans and then lower, to nibble on her ear.   

Ignoring the soiled couch, she pressed her back to the wall, grasping his arm to pull him closer - and then over her, with a sense of emergency that made his toes curl and his breath come faster. Gunn put one palm flat on the rough panel, and pinned her there under his weight. Chipped off paint scratched his fingers, pink-hued from the tacky light that bathed the room, falling oblique on battered furniture and dirty floors. Jangled voices and the occasional drunken cry broke through from the neighbouring room, and the air was heavy with the stench of alcohol and cheap food. But her body under his was melting hot, at once thrilling and comforting, and he sunk into that heat, his free hand running up to touch, all hard and eager.  

“Don't leave marks,” she whispered.   

“Your loss.” His lips trailed across her neck slowly, teasing. “I am very good at marks, baby.”  

She rolled her eyes, pulse fluttering under his lips, head falling back against the wall. “And I'm good with you still breathing, idiot.”  

He stroked her hair, dark, wild locks that curled around his fingers like they had a mind of their own, thinking he was good with that, also, and especially right now.  

“Hey, he’s welcome to try.”  

“It’s not funny,” she said, with a scowl.  

Gunn put his head in the crook of her neck.   

“Not meant to.” Frustration he’d held back for too long returned for another cruel bite. It had been fun at first, the chase, the thrill of hiding and the taste of the forbidden fruit. But he’d grown tired of stolen moments and clandestine meetings, now that he couldn’t get her out of his mid. He traced the line of her jaw with his mouth, feeling restless, out of his skin with the burst of nervous energy that prompted him to break bones and spill blood if it was what it took to claim this woman as his for the world to see.  

 _I'm falling for you_ _,_ he thought _._ Instead, he said, 

“Let’s go back in there and tell him.” 

He felt her tremble and then freeze in his arms.  

 “Stop it.”  

Bitterness flooded him, streaming from anger and jealousy. “If you want him so much, then why do you always come back to me?”  

“Don’t talk stupid, Skylight.” Usually, Mara’s English was good, but now her accent got through, melodious and more than a little intimidating, matching the scowl on her pretty face. She pushed him away suddenly, broke from the wall with unexpected force, angry flames dancing in her dark irises.  

“There is no always for you and me.” 

He registered soft pressure, warm and a bit uncertain, a faint taste of oranges tingling on his lips, cold fingers resting below his ear, a tentative touch on his cheek. And then, nothing. He blinked against blue light, and released a shaky, shallow breath. He couldn't tell when in hell he'd closed his eyes; but he was met by wide, grey ones, their metallic shine piercing like bullets as she slowly pulled away from him. 

“Stupid idea, Brighton.”  

The room collapsed into static silence. She kept gazing at him in the dim light, and returned a wry smile that denied the faint blush to her cheeks.  

“Self-destructive.”  

He shook his head, feeling suddenly guilty, since he’d flirted with her just moments ago, there was no denying it; and embarrassed, for feeling anything at all.  

“You’re not.” 

“I still mean you, Gunn.”  

She slid further back, putting more distance between them, and curled her legs under her body with the graceful calm of a cat perching on a window sill. He was forced to shift in place to face her, a position that put him at disadvantage. He suspected she knew it, too, but couldn’t imagine what if anything she was hoping to gain here. Maybe, back in the beginning. Seduction was, after all, as good a mean as any other to convert an enemy to fight for your side. She hadn’t attempted to use it, though, and he’d already agreed, hadn’t he? So, then, this, however deliberate, was real. Whatever it was.  

A range of indistinct emotions flickered across her face, there one second and gone the next, but Gunn didn’t bother trying to decipher them, because she was able to speak – goddamn it, she was in fact  _overqualified._ He inhaled sharply, painfully aware of the contrast with the quiet rhythm of her breathing. “Explain.”  

She splayed her fingers in front of him and held one up, counting. “First,” she stated firmly, “you intend to get on the helo tomorrow, or die trying. No in-betweens.” 

He shrugged. He couldn’t exactly contradict her, for all that, to him, it was more a matter of self-preservation. “I’m not about to argue the point.”  

 “How very nice of you. And unusual. But thanks anyway.” Her wry smile widened, and she held up another finger. “Second, the oranges. Who on earth even asks for food they actually hate? And third-” She tilted her head, weighting him with a focused, absorbed expression, like an opponent on a battlefield. “Stupid was never a deal-breaker for you.” 

True; but he’d kind of hoped it might be a deal-breaker for  _her_. “So, what is it, then? A pity thing?” He chuckled bitterly, and shook his head. “I might die tomorrow, but it’s OK, because it’s for the mission, and today you’ll just kiss it better?” A terrible thought kicked the breath out of him. “Or a daddy thing? Not done playing with his toys yet?”  

“Or maybe you’re being an idiot right now and I just don’t want to be alone tonight.”  

He shook his head. That he could understand, the need for company before action; but she didn’t know him, not really. Did she look at him and saw the wronged war hero? He was a soldier. He shot. He bombed. He killed. Sometimes, he enjoyed it. She’d get to see tomorrow just how good he’d gotten at his job, and he knew enough about her by now to realize she’d hate it – hate  _him_ _,_ just like Mara had by the end. 

She bit her lips and drummed her fingers against the couch.  

“You know, daddy’s toys may simply say no if they’re all that uninterested.”  

He met her words with surprise and resentment, which Gunn was sure showed plainly on his face. “That’s exactly what I said.”  

Amusement flickered in the grey irises. “Oh, did you?”  

God damn this woman! He clenched his jaw, his frustration raising and falling like the tide, and leaned forward, fully intent on answering her. She steadfastly held his eyes, and her sinful pink lips curled into a challenging smile. His hand closed of its own accord around her wrist. As always, her fingers were cold, but alive nonetheless, throbbing with the inflow of blood under soft, white skin. His anger suddenly evaporated, replaced with something else, that he couldn’t name and that settled deep in his bone, like an ache. He might die tomorrow. They all might.  

 _I just don’t want to be alone tonight._  

“It really is a bad idea, Brighton.”  

She shook her head slowly. “I really don’t care right now, Gunn.”  

He wound his arm around her neck and crashed their mouths together. It was the wrong kind of kiss, like answering a question with another, and also the right kind, lips and tongue and teeth that desperately searched for him.  

“My room?” she breathed against his lips.  

He’d known he was done for, the moment she’d stepped foot into the camp. This was long overdue. Tightening his grip of her wrist, he bolted up right, and rushed them both out of the living room and up the stairs. He was familiar with the way his stomach fluttered and his heart pounded in his ears. This felt just like an ambush, just like back when he was running for his life.   

 


End file.
